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PA 6395.C77" ""'"""*>' '""'"'» 
...Hpface's odes. 

3 1924 026 490 684 

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"Horace reigns supreme as tbe lyrical singer most, enthroned in the 
afiectionSj most congenial to the taste, of the complex multitude of 
students in every land and in every age," — Edward, Lord Lvrroif. 





A. J -2- "i H OT 

. c . 



THE popularity of tlie poet whose writings have 
taken snch a hold upon English literary taste 
as to have exercised the imitative talent of writers 
so diverse in their genius as Surrey and Cowper, 
Marvel and Hood, Dryden and Johnson, Milton and 
Horace Smith, is sufficiently well established to neces- 
sitate but few words of introduction to this collection, 
which aims at illastrating, in a necessarily partial degree, 
the influence of Horace upon three centuries of English 
poets and scholars. 

I have thought it not undesirable, at a time when 
each succeeding year witnesses the advent of at least 
one new Horatian translator, to rescue from their com- 
parative oblivion the labours of the earlier workers in 
the same inexhaustible field, by giving due prominence 
in my selection to the better specimens of the trans- 
lated odes in the once standard versions of Barton 
Holyday, Panshawe, Hawkins, and Creech. A com- 
parison of these with the later work of Francis and 
Duncombe, Boscawen, Mitford, and others, will not be 
without interest to the Horatian scholar as illustrating 


the variations of treatment and interpretation, and the 
diverse views as to the obligations of the poetical trans- 
lator that have prevailed at different periods of our 
literary history. 

Prior to the publication of Sir Thomas Hawkins's 
Odes in 1625, the "fashion" for translating Horace 
which has been paramount for the last two hundred 
and fifty years, had made little way. The critical acu- 
men of an age that had not long been educated out 
of an excessive admiration of Lucan and Statius into an 
equally exaggerated estimate of Virgil and Ovid, — in- 
clining with Richard Stanyhurst, the eccentric trans- 
lator of the "^neid," to rank the two latter as the 
" most considerable " of the Latin poets, while classing 
Horace with Ennius as " mere rabblement," — could 
hardly be sufficiently cultivated to permit of any wide 
appreciation of our poet's delicacy and refinement, or his 
humour, urbanity, and good sense, qualities which appeal 
more especially to the keener critical insight of more 
generally cultured generations. 

Thomas Drant, Prebendary of St. Paul's, who pub- 
lished the Epistles, Satires, and Art of Poetry in 1567 
(the first serious attempt at rendering any considerable 
portion of the works of Horace into English verse), 
appears to have undertaken his task solely as a labour 
of love. He was impressed with the conviction that 
the standard of public taste in his day was hardly 
equal to a just appreciation of the beauties of his 
favourite author. " I feare me," he says, in his address 


to the reader, "a mimber do so thincke of thys booke 
as I was aunswered by a printer not long agone ; though, 
sayth he, your boke be wyse and ful of learnyng, yet 
peradventure it wyl not be saleable ; signifying indeed 
that flimflames and guegawes be they never so sleight 
and slender are sooner rapte up thenne those which be 
lettered and darkly makings." 

Drant's translations are uneven in merit, and often 
harsh and paraphrastic, the most successful being 
perhaps the Epistle to TibuUus (lib. i. Bpis. iv.), which 
is worth quoting, especially as — not having translated 
any of the odes — ^he is not represented in the following 
selections : — 

" TybuUus, frend aad gentle judge 

Of all that I do clatter, 
What dost thou all this while abroade, 

How might I leame the matter ? 
Dost thou invent such worthy workes 

As Cassus' poemes passe ? 
Or doste thou closelie creeping lurcke 

Amid the wholsome grasse ? 
Addicted to philosophie, 

Contemning not a whitte 
That's seemlie for an honest man 

And for a man of witte ; 
Not thou a body without breast ; 

The Goddes made thee t'excell 
In shape ; the Goddes have lent thee goodes 

And art to use them well. 
What better thinge unto her childe 

Can wishe the mother kinde, 
Than wisedom, and in fyled frame 

To utter oute his minde 5 


To have fayre favore, fame enoughe 

And perfect sf aye and health 
Things trim at will, and not to feele 

The emptie ebb of wealth. 
Twixt hope to have, and care to kepe 

Twixt feare and wrathe awaye 
Consumes the time : eche daye that cummes 

Thinke it the latter daye. 
The hower that cummes unloked for 

Shall cum more welcum aye. 
Thou shall me fynde fat and well fed 

As pubble as may be ; 
And, when thou wilt, a merrie mate 

To laughe and chat with thee." 

A scrupulous verbal accuracy was the prevailing 
characteristic of the earlier school of translators, who 
consistently- resisted the temptation to adorn their work 
with any original poetic graces, aiming at the presenta- 
tion with a rigorous fidelity, not only of their author's 
ideas, but of the actual turn of his expressions ; a theory 
of the duty of a translator which, however laudable in 
the honesty of its intention, obviously presents, from the 
difference of idiom, serious obstacles to a graceful and 
perspicuous rendering, and results frequently, even with 
writers of such eminence as Marlowe and Ben Jonson, 
in compositions distinguished for little but inelegance 
and obscurity. Milton's verbal rendering of the Ode to 
Pyrrha and Surrey's spirited translation of the second 
and fourth books of the ".^neid" are pre-eminent among 
the honourable exceptions to this rule. Paraphrase, al- 
though practised, found no consistent advocate until 


George Chapman, the translator of Homer, advancing 
the legitimacy of a more free rendering than was allowed 
by his contemporaries, nrged that " it is the part of eyery 
knowing and judicious interpreter, not to follow the 
number and order of words but the materiall things 
themselves, and sentences to weigh diligently, and to 
clothe and adorne them with words, and such a stile 
and form of oration as are most apt for the language 
into which they are converted." 

Chapman's precepts and example, and the influence 
of Cowley and Sir John Denham — exerted, later on, in 
the same direction — opened the door to a considerable 
amount of licence, exemplified in the loose imitations 
and paraphrases of Cowley and Dryden, which in their 
turn, set an example of freedom of treatment to 
succeeding writers. From the middle of the seven- 
teenth century, " there is scarcely," to quote the late 
Lord Lytton, " a man of letters who has not at one time 
or other translated or imitated some of the odes." 
From the large amount of material thus brought to 
my hand, I have made my selections to the best of 
my judgment, giving due weight in my choice both to 
the merit of the translation and the reputation of the 
translator. The difficulty, however, has often consisted 
in determining what to reject, rather than what to 
select ; where two or three versions of a popular ode are 
given, as many dozens were easily obtainable, and the 
" Carmen Amabceum," the most often translated and 
imitated of any poem, ancient or modern, might almost 


have alone supplied material for a moderate-sized 

In the second part of the book are included nume- 
rous burlesques, political and social satires, poems 
owing a beauty of thought or a felicity of expression 
to the direct inspiration of an ode of Horace, and 
compositions which, written in imitation of his style 
and manner, are occasionally, as in the case of Marvel's 
magnificent Ode to Cromwell, more distinctly Horatian 
than most of the professed translations. 

These selections are limited to the writers of the 
earlier part of the present century, the latest, in point 
of date (with the exception of an ode by Barry Cornwall), 
being those of Leigh Hunt and the Rev. John Mitford. 



Book I. Tram&lator. Page 

Ode 1. Di". Broome 1 

2. Barton Holyday 5 

3. Dryden 7 

4. WraBgham ........ 9 - 

5. Cowley 10 

5. Milton 11 

5. Leigh Hunt 12 

5. Thomas Hood 12 

6. Gilbert Wakefield 13 

7. Dr. Francis 14 

8. John Evelyn 15 

9. Dryden 16 

9. Cowper 18 

10. Alexander Brome 18 

11. Sir Thomas Hawkins 19 

12. Christopher Pitt 20 

13. Sir William Temple 22 

14. I. H. Browne 23 

15. Elizabeth Carter 24 

16. W. Duncombe 26 

17. Sir James Marriott 27 

18. Sir Richard Eanshawe 28 

19. Congreve 29 

20. Wrangham 30 

21. Wrangham 31 

22. Roscommon 31 

22. Dr. Johnson 33 

23. Lord Glenbervie 34 

25. H. J. Pye 34 

26. Dr. Francis 35 

27. Sir Richard Fanshawe 36 


Book I. Translator. Page 

Ode 29. John Smith 37 

30. Dr. Francis 37 

31. Samuel Boyse 38 

32. " Gentleman's Magazine ' 39 

33. T.Creech 40 

34. Sir E. Fanshawe 41 ' 

35. T. Bourne 42 

36. Barton Holyday 44 

38. Cowper 45 

38. Hartley Coleridge 45 

Book II. 

Ode 2. G. Wakefield 46 

3. J. H. Merivale 47 

4. Bichard Duke 49 

5. T. Creech 50 

6. G. Wakefield 51 

8. Sir Charles Sedley 52 

9. Dr. Johnson 53 

10. Lord Surrey 54 

10. Tottel's " Miscellany " 55 

10. Tottel's " Miscellany " 57 

10. Sir Philip Sidney 58 

10. Cowper 58 

12. Sir Jeffrey Gilbert 60 

13. Bichard Crashaw 61 

14. Balph Bernal 63 

15. J. Mitford 64 

16. Cowper 65 

18. J. Ashmore 67 

19. Wrangham 68 

20. Wrangham 69 

Book UI. 

Ode 1. Cowley 71 

2. Swift 73 

3. Addison 74 

3. Byron 78 

4. Dr. Francis 79 

5. Wrangham 82 

6. Roscommon 84 

7. John Smith 85 

8. Thomas Flatman 86 

9. Herrick 88 

9. Atterbury • . . .89 


Book III. Translator. Page 

Ode 10. William Boscaweu 90 

11. Sir K. Fanshawe 93 

12. Creech 94 

13. J. Warton 95 

13. James Seattle 96 

16. J. Mitford 97 

17. Barton Holyday 99 

18. J. Warton 100 

20. Barton Holyday 101 

21. N. Rowe 102 

22. W. Boscawen 104 

23. Sir T. Hawlcins 104 

25. Barry Cornwall 105 

26. Alexander Brome 106 

27. Sir R. Fanshawe 107 

28. Sir T. Hawkins 109 

29. Sir John Beaumont 110 

29. Dryden 112 

30. Sir E. Fanshawe 116 

Book IV. 

Ode 1. Ben Jonson 117 

2. Cowley 118 

3. Atterbury 120 

4. Iiord Lyttleton 121 

6. Wrangham 124 

7. Tottel's " Miscellany " 125 

7. Dr. Johnson 127 

8. Sir E. Fanshawe 128 

9. George Stepney 129 

9. Dr. Francis 132 

10. Sir E. Sherburne 134 

10. Sir John Mennis 135 

11. Anna Seward 136 

12. Lord Thurlow 138 

13. W. Cartwright 139 

15. Sir T. Hawkins 141 

2. Dryden 143 

3. W. Boscawen 146 

7. Anna Seward 147 

13. " Gentleman's Magazine " . . . . .148 

14. Tom Brown 149 

15. " Gentleman's Magazine " 150 

15. Anna Seward 151 



Horatian Ode. Andrew Marvel . ... . . . 155 

To John Miller, ode 1, book 1. C. Anstey . . . .159 

To John Bull, ode L, book 1. James and Horace Smith. . 162 
Ad Kegem Carolum, ode 2, book 1. Andrew Marvel . .164 

Translation, ode 2, book 1. Andrew Marvel .... 166 

Brighton, ode 4, book 1. James and Horace Smith . . 168 

Imitation, ode 5, book 1. AphraBehn 169 

Imitation, ode 5, book 1. Chatterton 170 

To the Director Merlin, ode 5, book 1. Lord Morpeth, "Anti- 
Jacobin Eeview" 171 

The Jilt, ode 5, book 1 . James and Horace Smith . . .172 
Walter Scott, ode 6, book 1. James and Horace Smith . .173 

Imitation, ode 9, book 1. Congreve 175 

Winter, ode 9, book 1. James and Horace Smith . . .177 

Imitation, ode 11, book 1. AphraBehn 178 

Imitation, ode 11, book 1. Samuel Boyse .... 179 
An Address to his Gunboats by Citizen Muskein, ode 14, book 1. 

Lord Morpeth, "Anti- Jacobin Review" .... 180 

Edinburgh Reviewers, ode 1 6, book 1 . James and Horace Smith 181 

The Welch Cottage, ode 17, book 1. James and Horace Smith 182 

Imitation, ode 19, book 1. Chatterton 184 

Pleasing Petulance, ode 19, book 1. James and Horace Smith 185 

A Poet's Invitation, ode 20, book 1. G. Daniel , . . 186 

Imitation, ode 22, book 1. Roscommon 187 

Cupid's Invitation, ode 23, book 1. James and Sorace Smith . 188 

To the Earl of Bath, ode 25, book 1. Sir C. Hanbury Williams 189 

The Straw Bonnet, ode 26, book 1. James and Horace Smith 190 

Imitation, ode 27, book 1. Person 191 

The Bumper Toast, ode 27, book 1. James and Horace Smith 192 
Lucretius and Dr. Busby, ode 28, book 1. James and Horace 

Smith . . ■ 193 

Imitation, ode 30, book 1. Author of the " Dnel" . . . 194 

Imitation, ode 31, book 1. J. Oldham 195 

To his Lyre, ode 32, book I. Hamilton of Bangour . . 197 

The Comic Muse, ode 32, book 1. James and Horace Smith . 198 

Imitation, ode 33, book 1. " Gentleman's Magazine " . . 199 

Imitation, ode 34, book 1. " Gentleman's Magazine '' _ . . 199 
Ode to Anarchy, ode 35, book 1. Lord Morpeth, "Anti-Jacobin 

Review" ' 201 

To Fortune, ode 35, book 1. James and Horace Smith . . 203 

Imitation, ode 38, book 1. " New Foundling Hospital for Wit " 205 

The Bill of Fare, ode 38, book 1. James and Horace Smith . 205 


Lord Griffin to the Earl of Scarsdale, ode 4, book 2. N. Eowe 206 
Qn a Pair Gentlewoman scarce Marriageable, ode 5, book 2. 

Earl of Pembroke 207 

The Unfledged Muse, ode 5, book 2. James and Horace Smith 208 
Imitation, ode 6, book 2. Sir J. Marriott .... 209 
The Classic Yilla, ode 6, book 2.' James and Horace Smith . 210 
To Nelly O'Brien, ode 8, book 2. J. HaU Stevenson . .211 
To Lord Moira, ode 8, book 2. G. Ellis, " Anti- Jacobin Re- 
view" 212 

The Young Widow, ode 9, book 2. James and Horace Smith 214 
Imitation, ode 10, book 2. Jasper Hey wood . . . .215 
Prom Paul Poley to Nicholas Pazakerley, ode H, book 2. 

William, Earl of Bath 218 

His Age, odes 14, 18, book 2 ; and ode 7, book 4. B. Herrick 220 
To Eev. Mr. Langhorne, ode 14, book 2. " Gentleman's 

Magazine " .225 

Imitation, ode 14, book 2. Sir William Jones . . . 227 
Epigram, ode 14, book 2. E. H. Barham .... 228 
To Lord Bathurst, ode 15, book 2. E. Owen Cambridge . 229 
New Buildings, ode 15, book 2. James and Horace Smith . 230 
To the Hon. Philip Yorke, ode 16, book 2. Soame Jenyns . 231 
To John Shore, Esq., ode 16, book 2. Warren Hastings . 233 
Wit on the Wing, ode 16, book 2. James and Horace Smith . 235 
Cobbett, ode 1 9, book 2. James and Horace Smith . .238 
A Bit of an Ode to Mr. Fox, ode 20, book 2. G. Ellis or J. H. 

Frere, " Anti-Jacobin Eeview " 239 

To the Wife of the Captain of a Merchantman, ode 7, book 3. 

" Gentleman's Magazine " 241 

A Dialogue between God and the Soul, ode 9, book 3. " Eeli- 

quise Wottonianse " 243 

A Dialogue between Tonson and Congreve, ode 9, book 3. 

N. Kowe 244 

Dialogue between a certain Personage and his Minister, ode 9, 

books. "TheBoUiad" 245 

On the Return of the Prince Regent to Brighton, ode 14, book 3. 

G.Daniel 247 

To a faded Beauty, ode 15, book 3. G. Daniel . . .249 
Song, ode 21, book 3. Author of the " Duel "... 250 

To Bacchus, ode 25, book 3. Herrick 251 

Ode, ode 25, book 3. Geo. Canning, "Anti-Jacobin Eeview" . 251 
Imitation, ode 1, book 4. Pope . . . . . . 253 

To Dr. Bentley, ode 2, book 4. William Titley . . . 255 
To William Titley, ode 2, book 4. Dr. Bentley . . .256 
Imitation, ode 3, book 4. " Gentleman's Magazine " . . 257 
To Humphrey French, ode 9, book 4. Swift .... 259 

Imitation, ode 9, book 4. " New Foundling Hospital for Wit " 261 



Ode, ode 10, book 4. M. Prior 265 

Imitation, ode 10, book 4. Alexander Cunningham , . 267 

Imitation, ode 13, book 4. Thomas Seward .... 267 

To the Duke of Dorset, epode 2. Key. S. Shepherd . . 269 

In Praise of a Country Life, epode 2. George Daniel . . 273 

An Ode against Tobacco, epode 3. " Gentleman's Magazine " 274 

Imitation, epode 14. T. Brown 275 

The False One, epode 15. Charles Cotton .... 276 

Town and Country. Thomas Hood 277 




MoBoenas atavis edits regibus. 

M^CENAS, whose high lineage springs 
From a long race of ancient kings; 
Patron and friend ! thy honour'd name 
At once is my defence and fame. 
There are, who with fond transport praise 
The chariot thundering in the race ; 
Where conquest won, and palms bestow'd, 
Lift the proud mortal to a god. 
The man who counts the people's voice. 
Or doats on offices and noise ; 
Or they who till the peaceful fields, 
And reap what bounteous Nature yields, 
Unmoved the merchant's wealth behold, 
Nor hazard happiness for gold, 
Untempted by whole worlds of gain 
To stem the bUlows of the main. 
The merchant, when the storm invades, 
Envies the quiet of the shades ; 


But soon re-launches from the shore, 
Dreading the crime of being poor. 
Some, careless, waste the mirthful day 
With generous wines and wanton play, 
Indulgent of the genial hour, 
By spring, or rill, or shady bower. 
Some hear with joy the clanging jar 
Of trumpets that alarm to war. 
While matrons tremble at the breath 
That calls their sons to arms and death. 
The sportsman, train'd in storms, defies 
The chilling blast and freezing skies ; 
Unmindful of his bride, in vain 
Soft beauty pleads ! along the plain 
The stag he chases, or beguiles 
The furious boar into his toils. 
For you the blooming ivy grows. 
Proud to adorn your learned brows ; 
Patron of letters you arise, 
Grow to a god, and mount the skies. 
Humbly in breezy shades I stray. 
Where sylvans dance and satyrs play : 
Contented to advance my claim 
Only o'er men without a name ; 
Transcribing what the Muses sing, 
Harmonious to the pipe or string. 
But if, indulgently, you deign 
To rank me with the lyric train, 
Aloft the towering muse shall rise 
On bolder wings, and gain the skies. 

De. Beoomb.^ 

' William Broome died 1745. He assisted Pope in his translations 
from Homer. See Henley's Epigram : 

" Pope came off clean with Homer ; but they say 
Broome went before and kindly swept the way." 



Ja/m satis terris nims atque dirce. 


What dreadful tempests Some mthrcdl 
To vindicate great Oces(w's fall ! 
The empire prosperous remains 
Willie blest Augustus safely reigns. 

NOW Father Jove doth earth assail 
With store of snow and vengeful hail ; 
His glittering hand high turrets smites, 

And city frights ; 

Affrights the world, lest Pyrrha's reign 
Return with uncouth shapes again : 
When Proteus chased all his flocks 

To hills and rocks ; 

And shoales of fish clung to each tree, 
Where ring-doves pearched wont to be, 
And tim'rous hindes did plunging keep 

I' th' broadspread deep. 

We yellow Tiber have beheld, 

With waves from Tyrrhen shores repell'd, 

Hurl down kings' palaces on the plaines 

And Vesta's fanes : 

Pope refers disparagingly to him in " The Dunciad," and in the 
" Art of Sinking in Poetry " describes him as one of those " parrots 
who repeat another's words in such a hoarse odd tone as to make 
them seem their own." 


While he to plaintfuU Ilia boasts 
Revenge : and on sinister coasts 
(Mangre Jove) wandringly doth glide 

Th' indulgent tide. 

Of friends that sv^ords in friends did stain, 
Which better had the Persian slain : 
Of fights, shall hear (by parents' sin) 

Successors thin. 

On what God shall the people call 
To stay the wayning Empire's fall ? 
With what prayer shall the virgin quire 
Deaf Vesta tire ? 

To whom shall great Jove delegate 

Our sins' atonement ? Come, though late. 

Who, in white clouds invested be'st, 

Apollo's priest ! 

Or rather come, blith Bricine, 

Whom Mirth and Cupid doe enshrine : 

Or, if thy offspring in neglect. 

Thou Mars respect, 

Who sated art with warlike play, 
Whom oryes, nor burnisht helmes affray, 
Nor More's fierce lookes, who grimly show 
'Gainst bloody foe. 

Or in Augustus' shape array'd. 

Bright Maia's son, with wings display'd, 

O come, and vengeance deign to send 

As Caesar's friend. 

Late may'st thou unto Heav'n attain. 
And long among glad Romans reign ; 
Nor, wrathfuU at our crimes, may Death 

With rapid breath 


Sweep thee hence. Rather triumph here, 
Love style of Prince and Father dear, 
Nor, CsBsar, spare t' avenge the Mede, 

While thou dost lead. 
Babton Holtday.' 


Sio te Diva potens Gypri, 


SO may the auspicious Queen of Love, 
And the twin stars (the seed of Jove), 
And he who rules the raging wind, 
To thee, sacred ship ! be kind, 
And gentle breezes fill thy sails. 
Supplying soft Etesian gales. 
As thou, to whom the Muse commends 
The best of poets and of friends. 
Dost thy committed pledge restore. 
And land him safely on the shore ; 
And save the better part of me 
From perishing with him at sea. 
Sure he who first the passage tried, 
In harden' d oak his heart did hide. 
And ribs of iron arm'd his side ! 
Or his, at least, in hollow wood 
Who tempted first the briny flood ; 
Nor fear'd the winds' contending roar, 
Nor billows beating on the shore ; 
Nor Hyades portending rain ; 
Nor all the tyrants of the main. 

' Barton Holyday, divine and poet, was one of the earliest trans- 
lators of tlie Odes. (1624.) 


What form of death could him affright, 
Who, Tiiiconoem'd, with steadfast sight. 
Could view the surges mounting steep, 
And monsters rolling in the deep ? 
Could through the ranks of ruin go. 
With storms above, and rocks below ? 
In vain did Nature's wise command 
Divide the waters from the land, 
If daring ships, and men profane, 
Invade th' inviolable main, 
Th' eternal fences overleap. 
And pass at will the boundless deep. 
No toil, no hardship can restrain 
Ambitious man, inured to pain ; 
The more confin'd, the more he tries. 
And at forbidden quarry flies. 
Thus bold Prometheus did aspire, 
y^And stole from Heav'n the reed of fire ; 
A train of ills, a ghastly crew, 
The robber's blazing trace pursue : 
Fierce Famine with her meagre face. 
And fevers of the fiery race 
In swarms th' offending wretch surround. 
All brooding on the blasted ground : 
And limping Death, lash'd on by Fate, 
Comes up to shorten half our date. 
This made not Dsedalus beware 
With borrow'd wings to sail in air ; 
To Hell Alcides forced his way. 
Plunged through the lake and snatoh'd the prey. 
Nay, scarce the gods, or heavenly climes 
Are safe from our audacious crimes ; 
We reach at Jove's imperial crown. 
And pull th' unwilling thunder down. 





Solvitur aeris hiems grata vice veris et Fomoni. 

BY spring and Zephyr's gladsome sway 
Unloosed, stern Winter hastes away. 
Again the vessel tempts the sea ; 
The herds again bound o'er the lea ; 
His ingle-nook the hind forsakes, 
And frosts no longer bleach the brakes. 
Beneath the moon, o'er grassy meads 
The sprightly dance soft Yenns leads ; 
And link'd, the nymphs' and graces' train 
With foot alternate beat the plain ; 
WhUe Mnlciber, with kindling fires, 
The Cyclops toilsome forge inspires. 

Now round the brow be myrtle twined 
In verdant braid ; now chaplets bind 
Of flowers, from earth's freed bosom thrown : 
The sacrifice now lead to Faun, 
Lambkin, or kid, whiche'er he claim, 
In grove deep-hallow'd with his name. 

Pale Death knocks with impartial foot 
At prince's hall and peasant's hut : 
Warn'd, Sestius, by life's brief amount, 
Forbear on distant bliss to count : 
Soon, soon to realms of night away. 
Hurried, where fabled spectres play. 
Thou shalt 'neath Pluto's shadowy dome, 
Thyself a shadow, thither come ; 


No more shall dice allot to thee 
The banquet's jovial sovereignty ; 
Nor Ohloe more shalt thou admire, 
The virgin's pride, the youth's desire. 

Aechdeaoon "Weangham.' 


Qms nmlta gracilis te puer in rosd. 
whom now, Pyrrha, art thou kind ? 


To what heart-ravisht lover 
Dost thou thy golden locks unbind, 

Thy hidden sweets discover, 

And with large bounty open set 
All the bright stores of thy rich cabinet ? 

Ah, simple youth, how oft will he 

Of thy chang'd faith complain ? 
And his own fortunes find to be 

So airy and so vain. 

Of so cameleon-like an hue. 
That still their colour changes with it too ? 

How oft, alas ! will he admire 

The blackness of the skies ? 
Trembling to hear the winds sound higher. 

And see the billows rise ; 

Poor unexperienc'd he 
Who ne'er, alas ! before had been at sea. 

He enjoys the calmy sunshine now. 
And no breath stirring hears, 

' Archdeacon Wrangham published a translation of the four books 
of Odes in 1821. 


In the clear heaven of thy brow 

No smallest cload appears. 

He sees thee gentle, fair, and gay, 
And trusts the faithless April of thy May. 

Unhappy ! thrice unhappy he, 

T' whom thou untried dost shine ! 
But there's no danger now for me, 

Since o'er Loretto's shrine, 

In witness of the shipwreck past, 
My consecrated vessel hangs at last. 




HAT slender youth, bedew'd with liquid odours, 
Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave, 
Pyrrha ? For whom bind'st thou 
In wreaths thy golden hair ? 

Plain in thy neatness ? O, how oft shall he 
On faith and changed gods complain, and seas 

Rough with black winds and storms, 

Unwonted shall admire ! 

Who now enjoys thee, credulous, all gold, 
Who, always vacant, always amiable, 

Hopes thee, of flattering gales 

Unmindful ! Hapless they 

To whom thou, untried, seemst fair. Me in my vow'd 
Picture, the sacred wall declares to have hung 

My dank and dropping weeds 

To the stern god of sea. 




PYRRHA ! What ardent stripling now, 
In one of thy embower'd retreats, 
Wonld press thee to indulge his vow. 

Amidst a world of flowers and sweets ? 
For whom are bound thy tresses bright. 
With unconcern so exquisite ? 
Alas ! how oft shall he bewail 
His fickle stars and faithless gale. 
And stare, with unaccustom'd eyes, 
When the black winds and waters rise ; 
Though now the sunshine hour beguiles 
His bark along thy golden smiles ; 
Trusting to see thee, for his play 
For ever keep smooth holiday ! 
Poor dazzled fools who bask beside thee, 
And trust, because they never tried thee ! 
For me, and for my dangers past. 
The grateful picture hangs at last 
Within the mighty Neptune's fane, 
Who snatch'd me, dripping, from the main. 

Leigh Hunt. 



AH, Pyrrha, tell me, whose the happy lot 
To woo thee on a couch of lavish roses, 
Who, bathed in odorous dews, in his fond arms encloses 
Thee, in some happy grot ? 

For whom those nets of golden-gloried hair 
Dost thon entwine in cunning carelessnesses ? 
Alas, poor boy ! who thee, in fond belief, caresses. 

Deeming thee wholly fair ! 


How oft shall he thy fickleness bemoan, 
When fair to fonl shall change ; and he unskilful 
In pilotage, beholds, with tempests wildly wilful, 

The happy calm o'erthrown ! 

He who now hopes that thou wilt ever prove 
All void of care, and full of fond endearing, 
Knows not that varies more than Zephyrs ever- veering, 

The fickle breath of love. 

Ah, hapless he to whom, like seas untried. 
Thou seemest fair ! That my sea-going's ended 
My votive tablet proves, to those dark gods suspended. 

Who o'er the waves preside. 

Thomas Hood. 


Scriberis Va/ris fortis et hostium. 

IN strains majestic, Varius, bard sublime ! 
The glories of thy conquering arm shall sing, 
Thy feats on every wave, in every clime, 
Borne on the plumes of the McBonian wing. 

These high exploits, or fierce Achilles' rage. 
Daunt the faint warbling of my feeble lyre, 

Daunt the long labours of the pilgrim sage : 
Par humbler themes my humbler Muse inspire. 

She, all unconscious of th' enraptjir'd lays. 

That swell the loudly sounding strings along ; 

Nor thine presumes, nor CsBsar's peerless praise, 
With genius cold and unimpassion'd song. 


What bard shall paint, unbless'd with Homer's strains, 

In mail of adamant, the son of Jove ? 
Marion, embrown'd with dust on Trojan plains? 

Tydides, rival to the powers above ? 

Convivial joys, my sportive Muse requires, 
The ravish'd kiss, the virgin's playful strife : 

While, now at ease, now scorch'd with am'rons fires — 
Transition sweet ! glides on my chequer'd life. 

Gilbert Wakefield. 


Laiudahvmi alii olairam, Shodon, cmt Mitylen&n. 

LET other poets, in harmonious lays. 
Immortal Rhodes or Mitylene praise, 
Or Ephesus, or Corinth's towery pride, 
Girt by the rolling main on either side ; 
Or Thebes or Delphos, for their gods renown'd. 
Or Tempo's plains with flowery honors crown'd. 
There are, who sing in everlasting strains. 
The towers, where wisdom's virgin-goddess reigns ; 
And, ceaseless toiling, court the trite reward 
Of olive, pluck'd by every vulgar bard. 
For Juno's fame, th' unnumber'd tuneful throng, 
With rich Mycense grace their favorite song, 
And Argos boast, of pregnant glebe to feed 
The warlike horse, and animate the breed ; 
But me, nor patient Lacedaemon charms, 
Nor fair Larissa with such transport warms. 
As pure Albunea's far-resounding source. 
And rapid Anio, headlong in his course. 
Or Tibur, fenced by groves from solar beams. 
And fruitful orchards, bath'd by ductile streams. 


As Notus often, when the welkin lowers, 
Sweeps off the clouds, nor teems perpetual showers ; 
So let thy wisdom, free from anxions strife, 
In mellow wine dissolve the cares of life. 
Whether the camp, with banners bright-display 'd. 
On Tibnr holds thee, in its thick-wrought shade. 
When Teucer from his sire and country fled. 
With poplar wreaths the hero crown'd his head. 
Reeking with wine, and thus his friends address'd : 
Deep sorrow brooding in each anxious breast. 
Bold let us follow through the foamy tides, 
Where fortune, better than a father, guides : 
Avaunt despair, when Teucer calls to fame. 
The same your augur, and your guide the same. 
Another Salamis, in foreign clime 
With rival pride shall raise her head sublime. 
So Phcebus nods ; ye sons of valour true. 
Full often tried in deeds of deadlier hue. 
To-day with wine drive every care away, 
To-morrow tempt again the boundless sea. 

De. Feancis.' 


Lydia, die, jper omnes. 

LTDIA, I conjure you, say. 
Why haste you so to make away 
Poor Sybaris with love ? 
Why hates he now the open air ? 
Why heat, and clouds of dust to bear. 
Does he no more approve ? 

' Philip Francis, D.D., the father of the reputed author of Junius, 
is best known as the translator of Horace's complete works. His 
work achieved considerable popularity, and was re-edited by Pye, the 


Why leaves lie off his martial pride ? 
Why is he now afraid to ride 

Upon his Gallic steed ? 
Why swims he not the Tibxir o'er ? 
Or wrestles as he did before ? 

Whence do his fears proceed ? 

Why boasts he not his limbs grown black 
With bearing arms, or his strong back 

With which he threw the bar ? 
Is he like Thetis' son conceal'd, 
And from all manly sports withheld, 

To keep him safe from war ? 

John Evelyn. 


TO THALIARCHUS (paraphrase). 
Vides, ut alta stet nive aamdidimim. 

BEHOLD yon mountain's hoary height. 
Made higher with new mounts of snow ; 
Again, behold the winter weight 

Oppress the labouring woods below : 
And streams with icy fetters bound 
Benumb'd and cramp'd to solid ground. 

With well-heap'd logs dissolve the cold. 
And feed the genial hearth with fires ; 

Produce the wine that makes us bold, 
And love of sprightly wit inspires. 

For what hereafter shall betide, 

God, if 'tis worth His care, provide. 


Let Him alone, with what he made, 

To toss and turn the world below r 
At his command the storms invade ; 

The winds by his commission blow^ 
Till, with a nod, he bids them cease. 
And calm returns, and all is peace. 

To-morrow and her works defy,^ 

Lay hold npon the present honr, 
And snatch the pleasures passing by,. 

To put them out of Fortune's power.. 
Nor Love, nor Love's delights, disdain ; 
Whate'er thou gett'st to-day is gain. 

Secure those golden, early joys, 

That youth, unsour'd by sorrow bears, 

Ere withering Time the taste destroys 
With sickness and unwieldy years. 

For active sports, for pleasing rest. 

This is the time to be possest ; 

The best is but in season best. 

Th' appointed hour of promis'd bliss, 

The pleasing whisper in the dark. 
The half-unwilling, willing kiss. 

The laugh that guides thee to the mark, 
When the kind nymph would coyness feign. 
And hides but to be found again : 
These, these are joys, the gods for youth ordain. 


' Quid sit futurnm eras, fuge qusercre. 

For what to-morrow shall disclose, 
May spoil what you to-night propose : 
England may change ; or Chloe sti-ay ; 
Loye and life are for to-day. 

Matthew Peior. 



SBB'ST thoti yon monntain laden 'with deep snow, 
The groyes beneath their fleecy burdens bow, 
The streams, congeal'd, forget to flow. 
Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile 

Of fuel on the hearth ; 
Broach the best cask, and make old winter smile 
With seasonable mirth. 

This be our part — let Heaven dispose the rest ; 

If Jove command, the winds shall sleep 
That now wage war upon the foamy deep. 

And gentle gales spring from the balmy west. 

E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may. 

When to-morrow's pass'd away, 

We at least shall have to say, 

We have liv'd another day ; 
Tour auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er. 
Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no more. 



Mercuri faounde nepos Atlantis. 

SWBBT-tongu'd Cyllenius, son of May, 
Who man's first rudeness didst allay 
With eloquence and graceful parts 

Of wrastling arts ; 

I'll sing of thee, Heavn's messenger. 
By whom crookt lyres invented were; 
Crafty to hide whatere's bereft 

By sportive theft. 


While thee (0 youth) his threats affray, 
Except thou his stol'n beef repay ; 
With no shaft-bearing quiver fraught, 

Apollo laught. 
Rich Priam too deserting Troy, 
Th' Atreids escap'd with thy convoy, 
Thessalian watches, and each tent 

'Gainst Trojans bent. 
Thou in bless'd mansions ghosts unbowers, 
And thy Caducean rod o'erpowers 
Th' exiles tribe ; whom gods above, 

And lower love. 

Alexander Beome.' 


Tu ne qucesieris, scire nefas, quern mihi, quem tibi. 

STRIYB not, Leuconoe ! to know what end 
The gods above to me, or thee, will send ; 
Nor with astrologers consult at all, 
That thou may'st better know what can befall ; — 
Whether thou liv'st more winters, or thy last 
Be this, which Tyrrhen waves 'gainst rocks do cast ; 
Be wise ! drink free, and, in so short a space, 
Do not protracted hopes of life embrace. 
Whilst we are talking, envious time doth slide ; 
This day's thine own, the next may be deny'd. 

Sir Thomas Hawkins.'' 

' Alexander Brome edited a translation of Horace (1660) which 
includes all the Odes previously translated by Fanshawe, Hawkins, 
and Barton Holyday, the omissions being supplied by the editor and 
his friends. This was the first complete translation published. 

' Sir Thomas Hawkins published (1625) " selected and translated 
Odes of Horace, the best of lyrick poets, contayning much morftllity 
and sweetnesse." 


ODE xn. 

Quern virwm cmt Tieroa, Tjyra, vel acri. 

WHAT man, what hero, will you raise, 
By the shrill pipe or deeper lyre ? 
What god, O Clio, will yon praise. 
And teach the echoes to admire ? 

Amidst the shades of Helicon, 

Cold Hsemus top, or Pindns' head 

Whence the glad forests hasten'd down, 
And danced as tuneful Orpheus played. 

Taught by the Muse he stopp'd the fall 
Of rapid floods, and charm'd the wind : 

The listening oaks obey'd the call, 
And left the wondering hUls behind. 

Whom should I first record but Jove, 
Whose sway extends o'er sea and land, 

The king of men and gods above, 
Who holds the seasons in command ? 

To rival Jove, shall none aspire ; 

None shall to equal glory rise ; 
But Pallas claims, beneath her sire 

The second honours of the skies. 

■ To thee, Bacchus, great in war. 
To Dian will I strike the string, 
Of Phoebus wounding from afar, 
In numbers like his own I'll sing. 

The Muse, Aloides shall resound ; 
* The twins of lieda shall succeed; 

ODES. BOOK i: 21 

This for the standing fight renown'd, 
And that for managing the steed. 

Whose star shines innocently stUl : 

The clouds disperse : the tempests cease ; 

The waves, obedient to their will, 

Sink down, and hush their rage to peace. 

Next shall I Nnma'a pious reign, 

Or thine, O Romulus, relate ; 
Or Rome by Brutus freed again ; 

Or haughty Cato's glorious fate ? 

Or dwell on noble Paulus famej 
Too lavish of the patriot's blood ? 

Or Regulus' immortal name 
Too obstinately just and good ? 

These with OamUlus brave and bold 
And other chiefs of matchless might, 

Rome's virtuous poverty of old 
Severely season'd to the fight. 

Like trees ilarcellus' glory grows 

With an insensible advance ; 
The Julian star like Cynthia glows, 

Who leads the planetary dance. 

The Fates, O sire of human race, 
Intrust great Caesar to thy care ; 

Give him to hold thy second place 
And reign thy sole vicegerent here. 

And whether India he shall tame 
Or to his chains the Seres doom ; 

Or mighty Parthia dreads his name. 
And bows her haughty neck to Rome ; 


While on our groves thy bolts are hurl'd, 
And thy loud car shakes heaven above, 

Ho shall with justice awe the world, 
To none inferior but Jove. 

Oheistophee Pitt.' 

ODE xm. 

Cwm hi, Lydda, TelepM. 

WHEN thou commends't the lovely eyes 
Of Telephus that for thee dies, 
His arms of wax, his neck or hair j 
Oh ! how my heart begins to beat. 
My spleen is swell'd with gall and heai, 
And all my hopes are turn'd into despair. 

Then both my mind and colour change. 
My jealous thoughts about me range 

In twenty shaped, my eyes begin 
The stealing drops, as from a still 
Like winter spring, apace to fill, 
¥all down, and tell what fires I feel within. 

When his reproaches make thee cry, 
And thy fresh cheeks with paleness dye, 

I burn to think you will be friends ; 
When his rough hand thy bosom strips, 
Or his fierce kisses bum thy lips, 
I die to see how all such quarrel ends. 

' Author of a translation of the ^neid (1740), of which Dr. John- 
son remarked, " Pitt pleases the critics, and Dryden the people j Pitt 
is quoted, and Dryden read," 


All ! never tope a youth to hold, 
So haughty, and in love so bold. 

What can him tame in anger keep ? 
Whom all this fondness can't assuage, 
Who even kisses turn to rage. 
Which Venus does in her own nectar steep. 

Thrice happy they, whose gentle hearts. 
Till death itself their union parts, 
An undisturbed kindness holds, 
Without complaints or jealous fears. 
Without reproach, or spited tears. 
Which damp the kindest heats with sudden colds. 

Sib William Temple. 



navis, referent m mare te novi. 

SHIP ! shall new waves again bear thee to sea ? 
Where alas! art thou driving ? keep steady to 

Thy sides are left without an oar. 
And thy shaken mast groans to rude tempests a prey. 

Thy tackle all torn can no longer endure 
The assaults of the surge that now triumphs and reigns, 

None of thy sails entire remains. 
Nor a God to protect in another sad hour. 
Though thy outside bespeaks thee of noble descent. 
The forests chief pride, yet thy race and thy fame, 
What are they but an empty name ? 
Wise mariners trust not to gilding and paint. 
Beware then lest thou float, uncertain again, 



The sport of wild winds ; late my sorrowful care, 

And now my fondest wish, beware 
Of the changeable shoals where the Rhine meets the 

Isaac Hawkins Beownb.' 
(From Dodsley's Collection.) 


Pastor quv/m traheret per freta navibus. 

FROM Sparta's hospitable shore. 
His prize when faithless Paris bore, 
While gnilt impatient crowds his sail, 
Prophetic Nereus' checks the gale. 
By force the- flying robber holds. 
And thus the wrath of HeaTen unfolds : 
In vain thy fleet transports the dame. 
Whom injured Greece shall soon reclaim. 
Prepared to break thy lawless tie, 
And Priam's ancient realm destroy. 
Behold the troops the foaming steed 
To labors doom'd and doom'd to bleed ! 
See ! victim to thy lewd desires. 
Thy country blaze with funeral fires ! 
See ! Pallas, eager to engage, 
Prepares her car and martial rage : 
She waves her segis, nods her plumes, 
And all the pomp of war assumes ! 
In vain, devoted to thy side, 
Shall Cytherea swell thy pride ; 

Author of " Design and Beauty," and other forgotten poems. 


In vain thy graceful locks express 

The studied elegance of dress ; 

Thy languid harp, with amorous air, 

In vain shall charm the listening fair ; 

The palace screen thy conscious heart 

In vain against the Cretan dart, 

And Ajax nimble to pursue. 

What though, conceal'd from public view. 

The chamber guards thy nicer ear 

From all the horrid din of war ? 

At length, adulterer ! fall thou must, 

And trail those beauteous locks in dust ! 

See ! author of thy country's fate, 

Ulysses, practised in deceit. 

Behold the hoary Pylian sage 

Against her forfeit towers engage. 

Teucer and Sthenelus unite 

With various skill, in various fight. 

Tydides greater than his sire, 

To find thee, burns with martial fire. 

But as a grazing stag, who spies 

The distant wolf, with terror flies ; 

So shalt thou fly with panting breath. 

And faltering limbs, the approach of death. 

Where is thy boasted courage ? Where 

Thy promise plighted to the fair ? 

Though fierce Achilles' sullen hate 

Awhile protracts the City's fate, 

Heaven shall its righteous doom require. 

And Troy in Grecian fiames expire. 

Elizabeth Carter.' 

' Poetess and scholar, b. 1717, d. 1806. 




matre pukhra, fiUa pulclirwr. 

NTMPH ! of a beauteous mother bom, 
Whom still superior charms adorn, 
My slanderous verses, as you please, 
Destroy, by flames, or in the seas. 
Not Phoebus could his prophets fire. 
Nor Bacchus to extremes so dire ; 
Nor Corybantian cymbals wound 
The ear, with such a clattering sound, 
As baleful rage, which neither flame. 
Nor steel, nor tempest can reclaim ; 
And Jove, its madness to restrain. 
Would hurl his triple bolt in vain. 
'Tis said when Japhet's son began 
To mould the clay, and fashion man. 
He stole from every beast a part, 
And fix'd the lion in his heart. 
From rage the tragic ills arose 
That crush'd Thyestes ; hence the woes 
Of cities, with the ground laid even. 
And ploughshares o'er their ruins driven. 
Then curb your anger ; heat of youth, 
(I, now, with shame, confess the truth,) 
Prompted alone my guilty muse. 
In rapid numbers to abuse 
Tour blameless name — forgiven by you 
I will a softer theme pursue. 


' Author, in conjunction with his aon, the Bev. John Buncombe, 
of a translation of the Odes published in 1766. 


ODE xvir. 


Vehx amaenum scepe Lucretihm. 

OFT Fanmis leaves Arcadia's plain, 
And to the Sabine Mil retreats ; 
He guards my flocks from rushing rain, 
From piercing winds and scorching heats. 

Where lurks the thyme, or shrubs appear, 

My wanton kids securely play ; 
My goats no poisonous serpent fear, 

Safe wandering through the woodland way. 

No hostile wolf the fold invades ; 

Usticns pendant rocks rebound 
My song ; and all the sylvan shades 

By Echo taught, return the sound. 

The Gods my verse propitious hear, 

My head from every danger shield : 
For you, o'erflows the beauteous year, 

And Plenty's horn hath heap'd my field. 

Responsive to the Teian string, 

Within the sun-defended vale. 
Here, softly warbling, you shall sing 

Each tender, tuneful amorous tale. 

No rival here shall burst the bands 

That wreathe my charmer's beauteous hair. 

Nor seize her weakly struggling hands ; 
But love and Horace guard the fair. 

SiE James Maeeiott. 




Nidla/m, Vaife, sacra vite prms sevens' p/rborem. 

OF all the trees plant me the sacred vine 
In Tibiir's mellow fields, and let it climbe 
Cathyllns walls : for Jove doth cares propound 
To sober Jieads, which in full cnps are drown'd. 
Of want, or war, who cries out after wine ? 
Thee father Bacchus, thee fair Brycine, 
Who doth not sing ? But through intemp'rate use, 
Lest Liber's gifts yon turn into abuse. 
Think of the Oentaures brawle fought in their cans 
With Lapithes ; and to Sithonians 
Heavy Evous when their heated blood 
Makes little difference between what's good. 
And what is not. No gentle Bassaren 
I will not force thee : nor betray to view 
Thy vine-clad parts : suppress thy Thracian hollow, 
And dismall dynn, which blind self love doth follow, 
And glory puffing heads with empty worth. 
And a glasse bosome pouring secrets forth. 

Sib. Richaed Fanshawk.' 

' Sir Eichard Fanshawe was among the earliest translators of any 
considerable portion of the Odes. His " selected Parts of Horace, 
prince of lyricks, and of all the Latin poets the fullest fraught with 
excellent morality,' now newly put into English," was published in 
1652. The same volume contains other translations from various 
Latin poets, notably a charming poetical rendering of the Roses of 
Ausoniug, the concluding lines of which would seem to contain the 
suggestion of one of Herrick's most popular lyrics : 

" Nature, why mad'st thou fading flow'rs so gay ? 

Why shewd'st us gifts, to snatch them straight away ? 
A day's a rose's age. How neere do meet 

Poore bloome! thy cradle and thy winding sheet! 



TO GJjYO'EB.A. (jpara^hrase). 

Mater sceva Gujndiwwm. 

THE tyrant Qneen of soft desires, 
With the resistless aid of sprightly wine, 
And wanton ease, conspires 
To make my heart its peace resign, . 
And re-admit Love's long rejected fires. 
For beauteous Glycera I burn, 

The flames so long repell'd, with double force return ; 
Matchless her face appears, and shines more bright 
Than polished marble, when reflecting light ; 
Her very coyness warms. 
And, with a graceful sullenness she charms ; 
Each look darts forth a thousand rays, 
Whose lustre an unwary sight betrays ; 
My eyeballs swim, and I grow giddy while I gaze. 

She comes ! she comes ! she rushes in my vdns ; 
At once all Venus enters, and at large she reigns ; 
Cyprus no more with her abode is blest : 
I am her palace and her throne my breast. 
Of savage Scythian arms no more I write 
Or Parthian archers, who, in flying, fight, 
And make rough war their sport. 
Such idle themes no more can move. 

He whom the rising sun saw newly bom, 

He sees a wither'd corps at his return. 
Yet well with them'; who though they quickly dye, 

Survive themselves in their posterity ; 

Gather your roses, virgins, whilst theyr new : 

For, being past, no spring returns to you." 


Nor anything but wliat's of high import ; 

And what of high import, but love ? 

Vervain and gums and the green turf prepare ; 

With wine of two years old your cups be fill'd : 

After our sacrifice and prayer, 

The goddess may incline her heart to yield. 



Vile potabis modicis Sabimim. 

IN sober cups, Msecenas dear. 
Partaker of my humble cheer 
Thin Sabine draughts you'll taste : 
Which I, in modest Grecian jar, 
Stored on that happy day, when far 
In playful echoes cast, 

The crowded theatre's acclaim 

So hail'd you, that old Tibur's stream 

From your paternal shore, 
And Vatican's green hill around 
Catching the high triumphant sound 

Threw back the joyous roar. 

At home bright Oascuban, your lip 
And Cales' luscious growth, shall sip, 

Campania's costly wines : 
Alas ! the slope of Formias's hills 
For me no generous juice distils. 

Nor rich Falernian wines. 





Dianam, tenerce dioite virgines, 
ING, tender maids, Diana's praise. 

Ye boys, to youthful Phoebus raise 
The hymn ; Latona both approve — 
Latona, dear to father Jove. 
Te, Dian, fond of stream and bower. 
And woods on Algidus which tower 
O'er Erymanthus darkening spread, 
Or wave on Cragus' verdant head ; 
Ye boys, resound with rival strain 
Tempe and Delos, of the main 
Green gem, whence quiver'd Phoebus sprung. 
With Hermes' lyre his shoulder hung. 
He, far from Rome, from Caesar far 
Gaunt Pamine, Pestilence and War 
(Moved by your prayers) shall turn, and pour 
On Persia's or on Britain's shore. 



TO ARISTIUS FUSC'CrS (paraphrase). 
Integer vitcB scelerisque purm. 

VIRTUE, dear friend, needs no defence. 
The surest guard is innocence. 
None knew, till guilt created fear, 
What darts or poison'd arrows were. 

Integrity undaunted goes, 

Through Libyan sands or Scythian snows, 


Or where Hydaspes wealthy side 
Pays tribute to the Persian pride. 
For as (by amorous thoughts betray'd) 
Careless in Sabine woods I stray'd, 
A grisly foaming wolf, unfed, 
Met me unarm'd, yet trembling fled. 

No' beast of more portentous size, 
In the Hercinian Forest lies ; 
None fiercer, in Numidia bred, 
With Carthage were in triumph led. 

Set me in the remotest place. 
That Neptune's frozen arms embrace, 
Where angry Jove did never spare 
One breath of kind and temp'rate air. 

Set me, where on some pathless plain 
The swarthy Africans complain, 
To see' the ohar'ot of the sun 
So near the scorching country run ; 

The burning zone, the frozen Isles, 
Shall hear jne sing of Celia's smiles. 
All cold but in her breast, I will despise, 
And dare all heat but that of Celia's eyes.^ 


' Compare Sir Ed. Sherburne's Epigram, " Ice and Fire," 
" Naked Love did to thine eye, 
Chloris once, to warm him, fly ; 
But its subtle flame and light 
Scorch'd his wings, and spoil'd his sight. 
Forc'd from thence he went to rest 
In the soft couch of thy breast : 
But there met a frost so great 
As his torch extinguish'd straight. 
When poor Cupid thus (constrain'd 
His cold bed to leave) complain'd, 
' Alas ! what lodging's here for me. 
If all ice and fire she be.' " 



THE man, my friend, whose conscious heart 
With virtue's sacred ardour glows. 
Nor taints with death th' envenom'd dart, 
Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows. 

O'er icy Caucasus he treads, 

O'er torrid Afric's faithless sands ; 
Or where the fam'd Hydaspes spreads 

His liquid wealth, through barbarous lands. 

For while in Sabine forests charm'd 

By Lalage, too far I stray'd. 
Me singing, careless and unarm'd, 

A furious wolf approach'd and fled. 

No beast more dreadful ever stain'd 
Apulia's spacious wilds with gore ; 

No beast more fierce Numidia's land, 
The lion's thirsty parent, bore. 

Place me where no soft summer gale 
Among the quivering branches sighs, 

Where clouds, condens'd, for ever veil, 
With horrid gloom, the frowning skies ; 

Place me beneath the burning zone, 

A clime denied to human race ; 
My flame for Lalage I'll own ; 

Her voice, her smiles, my song shall grace. 

De. Johnson. 




Vitas hmrmleo me similis, Ohloe. 

AS flies the fawn, who strives to find 
On pathless hills,i the trembling hind, 
Ton, gentle Chloe, fly from me. 
Timid fawn ! whose idle fear 
Tells her still of dangers near, 
In every breeze, in every tree. 

Her courage fails, her strength decliaes, 
If Zephyr stir the rustling vines, 

Or lizards green the brambles shake ; 
But, ripe for pleasure, cease to blush ; 
No tiger I, your limbs to crush ; 

For man your mother's arms forsake. 

Lord Glenbeevib.' 


Pwroius junotas quativmt fenestras. 
HE amorous youths with heated breast 


Thy windows rarely now molest ; 
Their songs thy rest disturb no more, 
And quiet hangs thy silent door. 

' " Like as a hind — 
Yet flies away, of her own feet afTear'd ; 
And every leaf that shaketh with the least 
Murmur of wind, her terror hath encreas'd." 

' Sylvester Douglas, created Baron Glenbervie 1800, was Gover- 
nor of the Cape of Good Hope in that year. 


Now less and less each hour thy ear 
These plaintive strains of love shall hear, 
" Lydia ! while slumbers close thine eye, 
" We freeze beneath the midnight sky! " 
But thou, in turn when time's decay 
Bids all thy beauties fade away, 
In the dark streets the wanton crew 
With trembling voice shalt shameless woo. 
While rage for unappeas'd desires, 
And slighted love thy bosom fires, 
The amorous train for younger brows 
Shall twine the myrtle's verdant boughs, 
And all thy wither'd garlands lave 
With scorn in Hebra's wintry wave, 

H. J. Pye.' 


Musis a/mious tristiiia/m et metus, 

WHILE in the Muse's friendship blest, 
Nor fears nor g^ief disturb my breast : 
Bear them, ye vagrant winds, away, 
And drown them in the Cretan sea. 
Careless am I, or who shall reign 
The tyrant of the frozen plain. 
Or with what anxious fear opprest 
Heaves Tiridates' panting breast. 
Sweet Muse, who lov'st the virgin spring, 
"Hither thy sunny flow'rets bring, 
I And let thy richest chaplet shed 
Its fragrance round my Lamia's head ; 


For nought avails the poet's praise, 
Unless the Muse inspire his lays. 
Now string the tuneful lyre again, 
Let all thy sisters raise the strain. 
And consecrate to deathless fame 
My lov'd, my Lamia's honor'd name. 

De. Pkancis. 


Natis in usvrni loBtitice scyphis. 

WITH goblets made for mirth, to fight, 
'Tis barbarous ! leave that Thracian rite, 
Nor mix the bashful blushing God 
Of wine with quarrels and with blood, 
A cand-stick and quart pot, how far. 
They differ from the cymitar ! 
Your wicked noise, companions, cease ! 
And on your elbows lean in peace. 
Would you have me to share th' austere 
Falernian liquor : Let me hear, 
Megilla's brother, by what eyes. 
Of what blest wound and shaft he dies. 
No ! then will I not drink : whatever 
Venus tames thee, she toasts thy liver 
With fires thou hast no cause to cover, < 
Still sinning an ungenerous lover. 
Come ! thou may'st lay it whatso'ere 
It is, securely in my ear. 
Ah, wretch ! in what a whirlpool ta'en ! 
Boy worthy of a better flame ! 


What witck witli her Thessalian rod 

Can loose thee from those charmes ? What God ? 

Scarce Pegasus himself can thee 

From this three-shap'd Ohimsera free. 

SiE R. Tanshawe. 



led, heatis ivmio Arabum invides. 

CCIUS, th' Arabian's wealth thou dost envy, 
. And to the wars dost now thyself apply. 
b.ou for th' unconqner'd Medes, and Sabeees king, 
ost wreath strong chaines in triumph them to bring, 
rhat wife of barbarous husband, being slaine, 
a serve thy lust wilt thou force to retaine ? 
niiat courtly page, with haire perfum'd shall stand 
waite on thee, with quaffing cup in's hand ? 
kilfall enough his father's bow to bend, 
r Parthian arrowes with true aime to send. 
T^ho'le not believe that rivers readily, 
nd Tyber's streams may back to mountains flee, 
Then for books bought, which promis'd better far 
hou get'st a coat of mail and goest to war. 

John Smith.' 


Verms, regina Gnidi Pa/pliique. 

QUBEN" of beauty, queen of smiles. 
Leave ! oh ! leave thy favourite isles ; 
A temple rises to thy fame, 
' " The Lyrick Poet," Odes and Satyres translated out of Horai 

1 X o 


Where Glycera invokes thy name, 
And bids the fragrant incense flame. 

"With thee bring thy love-warm son, 
The Graces bring with flowing zone, 
The Nymphs and jocund Mercury, 
And sprightly Youth, who, without thee, 
Is nought but savage Liberty. 

Dk. Feancis. 


Quid dedicatum poscit ApolUnem. 

WHILE humbly ofiering at thy shrine, 
I pour the consecrated wine ; 
Of thee, bright God of verse and day ! 
What shall thy suppliant poet pray ? 

I ask not all the golden stores. 
That wave on rich Sardinia's shores ; 
Nov yet the flocks, a countless train ! 
That tread Calabria's verdant plain. 

I ask no heap of glitt'ring coin. 
Nor diamonds brought from India's mine ; 
Nor yet the plenty Heav'n bestows, 
Where softly winding Lyris flows : 

Let the toU'd merchant yearly stray 
Through every land and every sea ; 
And, led by fate in search of gain, 
Explore the earth and tempt the main. 


Grant me this wish — a country farm, 
Where all is fair, and clean, and warm ; 
The neighb'ring woods shall yield me fire, 
My garden food, my flocks attire. 

And Phcebna ! to confirm me bless'd, 
Still grant me health those joys to taste ! 
And still with health, let there be join'd 
An honest heart, and cheerful mind. 

Then to complete thy bard's desire, 
Give me to touch thy sacred lyre ! 
Still let the Muse inspire my lay. 
And help to sooth all care away ! 

Untroubled thus, serenely clear, 
The evening of my life shall wear ; 
Till death, unfear'd, unheeded come. 
And lay me peaceful in the tomb. 

Samuel Botse.' 


Posoim/wr : — si quid vac/id sub vmbrd, 

MELODIOUS Lyre ! if e'er reclined at ease 
Thy warbling notes, or my soft verse could 
In this retreat, let not their musick cease, 

But let a just applause reward thy song. 

1 Author of the " Deity," of which Fielding remarks : " A poem 
long since buried in oblivion, a, proof that good hooka no more than 
good men do always survive the bad." — " Tom Jones," book vii. 
?hap. 1. Boyse, who lived a degraded and abject life, died 1749. 


First from fair Lesbos' ever famons shore, 
Thro' wars harsh toils, and where loud billows roar, 
The solace of his cares ! Alcasus bore 
Thy sweetly sounding shell along. 

To thee he sung — warm'd by the tnnefal Nine — 
The praise of Venus, the free joys of wine, 
And gay Lycea's sparkling eyes that shine 

Black, as the tresses o'er her neck of snow. 

Thou, grace of Phcebus ! Thou delight of Jove ! 
Who, o'er thy strings whene'er my fingers move. 
Dost by thy soft, thy melting sweetness prove 
The kind dispeller of intruding woe. 

Gentleman's Magazine, July, 1731. 


Albi, ne doleas plus nimio memor. 

COME dry thine eyes, and cease to mourn, 
Think not too much on Glycera's scorn : 
Let no complaining songs proclaim, 
That she regardless of her vows 
Her wanton smiles bestows 
Upon a later and a meaner flame. 

Lycoris fair for Cyrus burns. 
She loves, but meets no kind returns : 
111 natur'd Pholoe Cyrus charms. 
But sooner shall the lambs agree 
With cruel wolves than she 
Shall take so base a wanton in her arms. 


Thus Venus sports, the rich, the base, 
Unlike in fortune and in face, 
To disagreeing love provokes : 

When cruelly jocose. 

She ties the fatal noose. 
And binds unequals to the brazen yokes. 

This is the fate that all must prove, 
The sure unhappiness of love ; 
Whilst fairer virgins did adore 
And courted me, I Myrtaf woo'd 

As rough as Adria's flood. 
That bends the creeks of the Calabrian shore. 

Thomas Cebech.^ 



Parous Deonrni cultor et infrequens. 

I THAT have seldom worshipt Heaven, 
As to a mad sect too much given, 
My former ways am forced to balk, 
And after the old light to walk. 
For cloud- dividing-lightning Jove, 
Through a clear firmament late drove 

His thund'ring horses, and swift wheels : 
With which, supporting Atlas reels : 
With which Earth, seas, the Stygian Lake, 
And Hell, with all her Furies, quake. 

It shook me too. God pulls the proud 
From his high seat, and from their cloud 

' Creech's translation of Horace, long regarded as a standard 
work, was published in 1684. 


Draws the obscure : levels the hills, 
And with their earth the valleys fills. 
'Tis all he does, he does it all : 
Tet this, blind mortals Fortune call. 

SiE R. Fanshawe. 



Diva, gratwm quoe regis Antiwm. 

FAIR Antium's goddess ! whose sweet smile or 
Can raise weak mortals from the depths of woe. 
Or bring the lofty pride of triumph down. 

And bid the bitter tear of funeral grief to flow ! 

Thee the poor farmer courts with anxious prayer :' 
Thee, sovereign of the seas ! does he implore, ' 

Who in Bithynian bark will boldly steer, 

Where wild Carpathia's waves in vex'd commotion 

The Dacian fierce, rude Scythia's wandering bands. 

And towns and nations, warlike Italy, 
Mother of kings who reign in barbarous lands. 

And purpled tyrants fear and trembling kneel to 

Let not thy wrath with scornful foot o'erthrow 
The column firm on which we rest our fate ; 

Ifor let wild discord work anew our woe 

Or rouse to arms again, and overturn the state. 


Before thee stalks stern Fate, who joys to bear 
In iron hand the wedge — the spikes so dire ; 

Nor wants the hook, to torture and to tear ; 

Nor molten lead that rolls its streams of liqnid fire. 

Thee, Hope, and white-rob'd Faith, so seldom found. 
Attend to cheer ; nor from thy presence fly, 

When those prond halls, for splendor long renown'd, 
Thou learest in angry haste and garb of poverty. 

But that false crew, which flatters to betray — 
The perjur'd partner of Love's wanton bower — 

Will drain the lowest dregs ; then shrink away 

Nor bear the equal yoke in Friendship's trying hour. 

O Goddess ! let great Ceesar be thy care. 

Whose daring sail seeks Britain's distant coast. 

Return his new-rais'd bands again to bear 

Our arms beyond the East — a gallant conquering host. 

But ah ! what crimes are ours ! what deeds of shame ! 

Dishonest scars and blood by brothers spilt. 
• Our iron age, well worthy of that name. 

What has it left undar'd? when made a pause in 
guilt ? 

Whose altar spared, by piety restrain'd ? 

But, oh dread Goddess ! let thy powerful hand 
Our blunted swords, by kindred blood distain'd. 

New whet against our foes of Scythia's barbarous 




Tli twre etfidibus jwoat. 


Our Lyric joy' d, exidts a/main 
For Nvmida's return from Spain. 

WITH frankincense and lyric lay 
And bullocks justly slaughter'd, let's allay 
Great Numid's tutelary Gods ; 
Who, safe arriv'd from Spain's remot'st abodes, 
Gave's dear friends many a kiss-salnte. 
But to sweet Lamia most did distribute ; 
Rememb'ring how both served all 
Their youthfuU days under one Generall. 
And both their gowns together quit. 
This beauteous day sign with a chalky smit : 
Let vast wine runlets freely spout, 
And Salian like incessant skip about. 
No more let soaking Dam'lis bonze, 
Than Bassus in a Thracian carouse. 
Let roses, parsley, evergreen. 
And fading lilies much at feasts be seen. 
All shall their eyes with lust infested 
On Dam'lis cast, nor Dam'lis be wrested 
From her new paramour, who combine 
Closer than any amorous ivy's twine. 

Babton Holydat. 




Persicos odi, puer, adpairatus. 

BOY ! I detest all Persi^tn fopperies ; 
Fillet-boTind garlands are to me disgusting ; 
Task not thyself with any search, I charge thee, 
Where latest roses linger. 

Bring me alone (for thon wilt find that readily) 
Plain myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparage 
Thee occupied to serve me, or me drinking 

Beneath my vine's cool shelter. 


NAT, nay, my boy — 'tis not for me. 
This studions pomp of Eastern luxury ; 
Give me no various garlands — fine 
With linden twine. 
Nor seek, where latest lingering blows 
The solitary rose. 

Earnest I beg — add not — with toilsome pain. 
One far-sought blossom to the myrtle plain, 
Por sure, the fragrant myrtle bough 

Looks seemliest on thy brow ; 
Nor me mis-seems, while, underneath the vine, 
Close interweaved, I quaff the rosy wine. 

Haetley Colbeidge. 


BOOK 11. 


Nullus argento color est avaris. 

YES, you deservedly despise 
The wealth, that use ne'er taught to shine, 
That rusting in the coffer lies 

Like ore yet buried in the mine ; 
For gold, my friend ! no lustre knows. 
But what a wise well-temper'd use bestows. 

Thee, Proculeius ! distant days 

Will bless, and make thy virtues known ; 
Conspiring tongues will sound thy praise, 

A father's love to brethren shewn, 
Transcendent worth, like thine, will fly 
On Fame's unflagging pinions thro' the sky. 

A monarch far more potent he, 

Who subject keeps his wayward soul. 

Who lives from sordid avarice free, 
And dares each fiercer lust controul, 

Than he whose universal sway 

Wide Earth's extremes, her East and West, obey. 

That sensual self-indulgent wretch. 
Whose skin the panting dropsy strains, 

Still must the watery languor stretch, 
And only Temperance ease his veins : 


So growing wealth prompts new desire, 

And Fortune's breeze but fans the wasting fire. 

That Persian hails the public voice 

Deck'd with the crown that Cyrus wore : 

But virtue sanctions not the choice ; 
She calls Phraates bless'd no more : 

Can tyrant hands, defil'd with sin, 

The fair, the spotless meed of virtue win ? 

Virtue, their rule perverse, shall own 

Which bliss to wealth and grandeur leaves. 

Prom virtue he, and he alone, 
The wreath and diadem receives, 

Who dares the glittering heap pass by. 

With steadfast mien and unreverted eye. 

Gilbert Wakefield. 


^quam memento rebus in ardv/is. 

WHEN dangers press, a mind sustain 
Unshaken by the storms of Pate ; 
And when delight succeeds to pain 

With no glad insolence elate : 
Por death will end the various toys 
Of hopes, and fears, and cares, and joys. 

Mortal alike, if sadly grave 

Ton pass life's melancholy day ; 

Or in some green, retired cave. 
Wearing the idle hours away, 

Give to the Muses all your soul. 

And pledge them in the flowing bowl; 


Where the broad pine, and poplar white, 

To join their hospitable shade, 
With intertwisted boughs delight ; 

And, o'er its pebbly bed convey'd, 
Labours the winding stream to run 
Trembling and glittering to the sun. 

Thy generous wine, and rich perfume, 

And fragrant roses hither bring, 
That with the early zephyrs bloom, 

And wither with, declining spring. 
While joy and youth not yet have fled. 
And Pate still holds the uncertain thread. 

You soon must leave your verdant bowers, 
And groves, yourself had taught to grow, 

Tour soft retreats from sultry hours, 
Where Tiber's gentle waters Q.ovr, 

Soon leave ; and all you call your own 

Be squander'd by an heir unknown. 

Whether of wealth and lineage proud, 

A high patiician name yon bear. 
Or pass ignoble in the crowd, 

TJnshelter'd from the midnight air, 
'Tis all alike ; no age or state 
Is spared by unrelenting Fate. 

To the same port pur barks are bound ; 

One final doom is fix'd for all ; 
The universal wheel goes round. 

And, soon or late, each lot must fall. 
When all together shall be sent 
To one eternal banishment. 

John Herman Meeitale.^ 

' Poet and translator. Published "Orlando in Eoncesvalles," 
1814, and assisted Bland in his " Collections from the Greek An- 
thology," besides publishing otlier works. 



Ne sit cmeilloB iibi wmor pudori. 

BLUSH not, my friend, to own the love 
Which thy fair captive's eyes do move : 
Achilles once, the fierce, the brave, 
Stoop'd to the beauties of a slave ; 
Tecmessa's charms could overpower 
Ajax her lord and conqueror ; 
Great Agamemnon when success 
Did all his arms with conquest bless, 
When Hector's fall had gain'd him more 
Than ten long rolling years before. 
By a bright captive virgin's eyes 
Ev'n in the midst of triumph dies. 
You know not to what mighty line 
The lovely maid may make you join ; 
See but the charm her sorrow wears. 
No common cause could draw such tears : 
Those streams, sure, that adorn her so, 
For loss of royal kindred flow : 
Oh ! think not so divine a thing 
Could from the bed of Commons spring ; 
Whose faith could so unmov'd remain. 
And so averse to sordid gain. 
Was never born of any race 
That might the noblest love disgrace. 
Her blooming face, her snowy arms, 
Her well-shap'd legs, and all her charms 
Of her body and her face 
I, poor I, may safely praise. 



Suspect not love, the youthful rage, 
From Horace's declimng age ; 
But think remov'd by forty years, 
All his flames and all thy fears. 

KiCHAKD Ddke.' 


NondMm subactaferre jiigmn valet. 

THY heifer, friend, is hardly broke. 
Her neck uneasy to the yoke ; 
She cannot draw the plough, nor bear 
The weight of the obliging steer : 
In flow'ry meads is her delight, 
Those claim her taste, and please her sight : 
Or else she flies the burning beams. 
To quench her thirst in cooler streams ; 
Or with the calves through pastures plays, 
And wantons all her easy days : 
Forbear ! design no hasty rape 
On such a green, untimely grape : 
Soon ruddy Autumn will produce 
Plump clusters, ripe, and fit for use : 
She, that now flies, shall then pursue ; 
She, that's now courted, doat on you : 
For age whirls on and every year. 
It takes from thee, it adds to her : 
Soon, Lalage, shall soon proclaim 
Her love, nor Wush to own her flame. 
Lov'd more, for she more kindly warms 
Than Pholoe coy, or Chloris' charms : 

' " His poems are not below mediocrity ; nor have I found in them 
much to be praised." — De. Johnsoh. 


So pure Her breast, so fair a white, 
As in a clear and smiling night. 
In quiet floods, the silver moon, 
On Cretan Gyges never shone ; 
Who, plac'd among the maids, defies 
A skilful stranger's prying eyes : 
So smooth his doubtful looks appear, 
So loose to womankind, his hair. 


Septimi, Gades aditwre meown, et. 

COMB friend ! with me to Gades' remotest shores, 
Where fierce Cantabrians spurn the Roman chain ; 
To climes barbaric, where unceasing roars 
Thro' boiling sands the Mauritanian main. 

May I; in Tybur, rais'd by Argive bands, 
Close the calm scene of life's eventful stage : 

There find these limbs, long toss'd on seas and lands, 
A bed of comfort for reposing age ! 

Sljould Fate, unkind, deny that blissful seat, 
Thy wave, Galesus ! and thou, rural reign 

Of bold Phalantns ! rest my pilgrim feet. 

Where snow-white fleeces brighten all the plain. 

Te streams delicious, and enchanting fields! 

Oh ! may that spot of all the globe be mine ! 
Hymettus' self not purer honey yields ; 

Venafrian olives dare but rival thine. 


There from soft Zephyr of encroaching Springs, 
Stem Winter's transient rigours melt away ; 

There grapes, mount Anion from his full lap flings, 
Like thine, Falern ! matures a warmer ray. 

There every grace that Nature's hand can lend. 
Invite our steps, and all the clime endear : 

There pay the last sad ofSce to thy friend. 
And quench his glowing ashes with a tear. 

Gilbert WAKEriKLD. 


Zflla sijwris tibi pejerati. 

DID any punishment attend 
Thy former perjuries, 
I should believe, a second time. 

Thy charming flatteries : 
Did but one wrinkle mark thy face. 
Or hadst thou lost one single grace. 

No sooner hast thou, with false vows, 
Provok'd the powers above ; 

But thou art fairer than before, 
And we are more in love. 

Thus Heaven and Earth seem to declare 

They pardon falsehood in the fair. 

Sure 'tis no crime vainly to swear 

By every power on high, 
And call our bury'd mother's ghost, 

A witness to the lie : 
Heaven at such perjury connives. 
And Venus, with a smile, forgives. 


The nymphs and cruel Cupid too, 

Sharp'ning his pointed dart 
On an old hone, besmear'd with blood. 

Forbear thy perjur'd heart. 
Fresh youth grows up to wear thy chains, 
And the old slave no freedom gains. 

Thee, mothers, for their eldest sons. 

Thee, wretched misers fear. 
Lest thy prevailing beauty should 

Seduce the hopeful heir ; 
New marry'd virgins fear thy charms 
Should keep their bridegrooms from their arms. 

Sib Ohablbs Sbdlby. 


Non semper imibres nubibus Mspidos. 

CLOUDS do not always veil the skies, 
Nor showers immerse the verdant plain ; 
Nor do the billows always rise, 

Or storms afflict the troubled main. 

Nor, Valgius, on the Armenian shores. 
Do the chain'd waters always freeze ; 

Not always furious Boreas roars, 

Or bends with violent force the trees. 

But you are ever drowned in tears, 
For Mystes dead, you ever mourn ; 

No setting Sol can ease your cares. 
But finds you sad at his return. 


The wise experieno'd Grecian sage 

Moum'd not Antiloelins so long : 
Nor did King Priam's hoary age 

So much lament his slanghter'd son. 

Leave off, at length, these woman's sighs, 
Augustus' number'd trophies sing ; 

Repeat that prince's victories, 

To whom all nations tribute bring. 

Niphates rolls an humbler wave ; 

At length th' undaunted Scythian yields. 
Content to live the Eoman's slave. 

And scarce forsakes his native fields. 

De. Johnson. 



Bectius vives, Licmi, neque aMvm. 
Praise of meane and constant estate. 

OF thy lyfe, Thomas, this compasse well mark. 
Not aye with full sayles the hye seas to beat : 
Ne by coward dred, in shonning stormes dark. 
On shalow shores thy keel in perill freat. 
Who so gladly halseth the golden meane, 
Voyde of dangers advisdly hath his home 
Not with lothsom muck, as a den uncleane : 
Nor palacelyke, wherat disdayn may glome. 
The lofty pyne the great winde often rives : 
With violenter swey falle turrets stepe : 
Lightninges assault the hye mountains and clives. 
A hart well stayd, in overthwartes depe, 


Hopeth amendes : in swete, doth feare the sowre. 
God, that seudeth, withdraweth winter sharp. 
Now ill, not aye thns : once Phebus to lowre 
With bow nnbent shall cesse, and frame to harp 
His voyoe. In straite estate appere thou stout: 
And so wisely, when lucky gale of winde 
All thy puft sailes shall fil, loke well about : 
Take in a ryft : hast is wast, profe doth finde. 

Henky Howaed, Eael op Sueeey.* 

The mecme estate is to be a/icom/pted the best. 

WHO craftly castes to stere his boate 
and safely skoures the flattering flood : 
He cutteth not the greatest waves 

for why, that way were nothing good. 
Ne fleteth on the crocked shore 

lest harme him happe awayting lest. 
But wines away between them both, 

as who would say, the meane is best. 
Who waiteth on the golden meane, 

he put in point of sickernes : 
Hides not his head in sluttishe coates, 

ne shroudes himself in filthines. 
Ne sittes aloft in hye estate, 

where hatefull hartes envie his chance : 
But wisely walkes betwixt them twaine, 

ne proudly doth himself avance. 

• This and the two following versions of the same Ode by " Un- 
certain Authors" occur in Tottel's " Miscellany" (1557). They are 
all here inserted as being the earliest specimens of Enghsh verse 
translations from Horace that I have been able to discover. 


Th.e highest tree in all the woode 

is rifest rent with blnstring windes : 
The heigher hall thfe greater fall. 

such chance have proud and lofty mindes. 
When Jupiter from hie doth threat 

with mortall mace and dint of thunder, 
The highest hilles ben batrid eft 

when they stand still that stoden under. 
The man whose head with wit is fraught 

in welth will feare a worser tide, 
When fortune failes dispairetb nought 

but constantly doth stil abide. 
For he that sendeth grisely stormes 

with whisking windes and bitter blastes 
And fowlth with hail the winter's face 

and frotes the soile with hory frostes, 
Even he adawth the force of colde, 

the spring in sendes with somer bote. 
The same full oft to stormy hartes 

is cause of bale : of joye the roote. 
Not always il though so be now 

when cloudes ben driven then rides the racke. 
Phebus the fresh ne shoteth still 

sometime he harpes his Muse to wake. 
Stand stif therfore ! pluck up thy hart ! 

lose not thy port though fortune faile : 
Againe when winde doth serve at will, 

take hede to hye to hoyse thy saile. 

From TotteVs Miscellany, " Songs and Sonettes 
of Uncertain Authors." 


Of the golden meane. 

THE wisest way, thy bote, in ware and winde to 
Is neither still the trade of middle streame to trie ; 
Ne (warely shnnnyng wrecke by wether) aye to nie. 
To presse upon the perillous shore. 

Both clenely flees he filthe : ne wonnes a wretched 

In carlish coate : and carefnll court aie thrall to spite, 
With port of proud astate he leves : who doth delight, 
Of golden meane to hold the lore. 

Stormes rifest rende the sturdy stout pine apple tre. 
Of lofty rising towers the fals the feller be. 
Most sers doth lightenyng light, where furthest we do see 
The hilles the valey to forsake. 

Well fnrnisht brest to bide eche chanses changing chear. 
In woe hath chearfuU hope, in weal hath warefuU fear, 
One self Joye winter makes with lothfull lokes appear. 
That can by course the same aslake. 

What if into mishap the case now casten be ? 
It forceth not such forme of luck to last to thee. 
Not alway bent is Phebus bow : his harpe and he 
Ceast silver sound sometime doth raise. 

In hardest hap use helpe of hardy hopef uU hart. 
Seme bold to bear the brunt of fortune overthwart. 
Eke wisely when forewinde to full breathes on thy part, 
Swage swellyng saile, and doubt decayes. 
From Tottel's Miscellany, 2nd Edition : 

" Songs cmd Sonettes by wncertadn Avihors." 



YOTJ better sure shall live, not evermore 
Trying high seas ; nor, while sea's rage you flee, 
Pressing too much upon ill-harbour'd shore. 

The golden meane who loves, lives safely free 
From filth of foreworne house, and quiet lives, 
Releast from court, where envie needes must be. 

The winde most oft the highest pine tree greeves ; 

The stately towers come downe with greater fall ; 
The highest hills the bolt of thunder cleeves ; 

Evill happes do fill with hope, good happes appal. 
With feare of change, the courage well preparde : 

Fowle winters as they come, away they shall. 

Though present times and past with ills be snar'd. 
They shall not last; with citherne, silent Muse 

Apollo wakes, and bowe hath sometime sparde. 
In hard estate, with stout shew valour use ! 

The same man still, in whom wisedom prevailes 
In too full winde, draw in thy swelling sailes. 

SiE Philip Sidney. 


RECEIVE, dear friend, the truths I teach. 
So shalt thou live beyond the reach 
Of adverse fortune's power ; 
Not always tempt the distant deep. 
Nor always timorously creep 
Along the treacherous shore. 

He that holds fast the golden mean. 
And lives contentedly between 
The little and the great, 


Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, 
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, 
Imbittering all his state. 

The tallest pines feel most the power 
Of wintry blasts ; the loftiest tower 

Comes heaviest to the ground ; 
The bolts that spare the mountain's side. 
His cloud-capt eminence divide, 

And spread the ruin round. 

The well-inform'd philosopher 
Rejoices, with a wholesome fear. 

And hopes in spite of pain ; 
If Winter bellow from the North, 
Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth. 

And nature laughs again. 

What if thine Heaven be overcast ? 
The dark appearance will not last ; 

Expect a brighter sky ! 
The God that strings the silver bow 
Awakes sometimes the Muses too, 

And lays his arrows by. 

If hindrances obstruct thy way. 
Thy magnanimity display. 

And let thy strength be seen ; 
But, O ! if Fortune fill thy sail, 
With more than a propitious gale, 

Take half thy canvass in. Cowpee.' 

' A Eeflectiou on the foregoing Ode : — 

" And is this all ? Can Season do no more 
Than bid me shun the deep and dread the shore ? 
Sweet moralist ! Afloat on life's rough sea 
The Christian has an art uriknown to thee. 
He holds no parley with unmanly fears ; 
Where duty bids, he confidently steers, 
Fa«es a thousand dangers at her call. 
And trusting in his God, surmounts them all." 




NoUs longafercB hella NmnamticB: 

DIRE Hannibal, the Roman dread, 
Numantian wars, wiich. raged so long. 
And seas with Punic slaughter red, 
Suit not the softer lyric song ; 

Nor savage Centaurs, mad with wine ; 
Nor Earth's enormous rebel brood, 
Who shook with fear the Powers divine, 
Till by Alcides' arms subdued. 

Better, Mseoenas, thou in prose 
Shalt CsBsar's glorious battles tell ; 

With what bold heat the victor glows, 
What captive kings his triumphs swell. 

Thy mistress, all my Muse employs ; 

Licinia's voice, her sprightly turns, 
The fire that sparkles in her eyes, " 

And in her faithful bosom burns. 

When she adores Diana's day. 

And all the beauteous choirs advance, 

With sweetest airs, divinely gay. 

She shines, distinguish'd in the dance ! 

Not all Arabia's spicy fields 

Can with Licinia's breath compare ; 

Nor India's self a treasure yields. 
To purchase one bright flowing hair : 


When she with bending neck complies 

To meet the lover's eager kiss, 
With gentle cruelty denies, 

Or snatches first the fragrant bliss. 

SiE Jeffrey Gilbert.' 

Ille et nefasto teposuit die. 

SHAME of thy mother soyle ! ill nurtur'd tree ! 
Sett, to the mischief of posteritie ! 
That hand (whate're it were) that was thy nurse. 
Was sacrilegious, sure, or something worse. 
Black, as the day was dismall, in whose sight 
Thy rising top first stain'd the bashfull light. 
That man — I thinke — wrested the feeble life 
From his old father ; that man's barbarous knife 
Conspir'd with darkness 'gainst the stranger's throate ; 
(Whereof the blushing walles tooke bloody note). 
Huge high-floune poysons, ev'n of Colchis breed, 
And whatsoe're wild sinnes black thoughts doe feed, 
His hands have paddled in ; his hands, that found 
Thy traiterous root a dwelling in my ground. 
Perfidious totterer ! longing for the staines 
Of thy kind master's well-deserving braines. 
Man's daintiest care and caution cannot spy 
The subtile point of his coy destiny. 
Which way it threats. With feare the merchant's mind 
Is plough'd as deepe, as is the sea with wind, 
Rows'd in an angry tempest. Oh ! the sea ! 
Oh 1 that's his feare ; there flotes his destiny : 

' Lord Chief Baron of the Exchequer, 1725-26. 


While from another, unseene, corner blowes 

The storme of fate, to which his life he owes. 

By Parthian's bow the soldier lookes to die, 

(Whose hands are fighting, while their feet doe flie.) 

The Parthian starts at Rome's imperiall name, 

Fledg'd with her eagle's wing ; the very shame 

Of his captivity rings in his eares. 

Thus, O, thus fondly doe we pitch our feares 

Parre distant from our fates, our fates that mocke 

Our giddy feares with an unlook't for shocke. 

A little more, and I had surely seene 

Thy greisly majesty, Hell's blackest Queene ; 

And ^acus on his tribunall too. 

Sifting the soules of guilt ; and you, oh ! you, 

Ton ever blushing meads, where doe the blest 

Farre from darke horrors home appeale to rest. 

There amorous Sappho plaines upon her lute. 

Her love's cross fortune, that the sad dispute 

Eunnes murmuring on the strings. Alcssus there, 

In high built numbers wakes his golden lyre, 

To tell the world, how hard the matter went. 

How hard by sea, by warre, by banishment. 

There these brave soules deale to each wond'ring eare 

Such words, soe precious, as they may not weare 

Without religious silence ; above all 

Warre's rattling tumults or some tyrant's fall. 

The thronging clotted multitude doth feast : 

What wonder ? when the hundred-headed beast 

Hangs his black lugges, stroakt with those heavenly 

lines ; 
The Puries curl'd snakes meet in gentle twines, 
And stretch their cold limbes in a pleasing fire. 
Prometheus selfe, and Pelops sterved sire 
Are cheated of their paines ; Orion thinkes 
Of lions now no more, or spotted lynx. 

RiCHAED Oeashaw. 



Eheufugaces, Posiv/me, Postvmie. 

SWIFT fly the rolling years, my friend ! 
Nor can your anxious prayers extend 
The fleeting joys of youth ; 
The trembling hand, the wrinkled cheek, 
Too plainly life's decay bespeak, 
With sad but silent truth. 

What though your daily offerings rise, 
In fragrant clouds of sacrifice. 

To Jove's immortal seat; 
Ton cannot fly death's cold embrace. 
Where peasants — chiefs of kingly race — 

An equal welcome meet. 

In vain, from battle fields afar, 
You gently dream of raging war. 

Secure in peace and wealth ; 
In vain you shun the stormy wave, 
The scorching breeze, that others brave. 

Profuse of vigorous health. 

Though zealous friends your portals throng, 
They cannot still your life prolong 

By one short lingering hour. 
Whate'er our plans, whate'er our state, 
We mortals own one common fate, 

One stem unbending power. 

When your parch'd lips shall faintly press, 
On your fond wife, their last caress, 
And farewell murmurs breathe, 


Tour wandering eyes shall feebly rove 
O'er each loved wood, and well train'd grove, 
To seek a funeral wreath. 

The purple vineyard's luscious stores. 
Secured by trebly bolted doors, 

Excite, in vain, your care ; 
Soon shall the rich and sparkling hoard 
Flow largely o'er the festive board 

Of your unsparing heir. 

Ralph Beenal.^ 

Joffli pauoa aratro jugera regim. 

GLEAMING on Baiee's golden shore. 
Ton marble domes their sunny wings expand : 
And glittering villas crown the yellow strand : 
But ah ! its wealthy harvests wave no more. 
The faithful ploughshare quits the encumber'd land. 

Mark yon broad lakes their glittering bosoms spread, 

Wide, as the Lucrine wave, their waters sheen ; 

And lo ! the solitary plane is seen, 

Spreading its broad and fruitless boughs of green. 
Where erst above the maple's social head. 
Laden with grapes the tendrils wont to twine ; 

And thou thy purple clusters shed, 

Oh ! Italy's beloved vine ! 

How rich the balm Favonius breathes, 
From banks, with rose and spicy myrtle set ! 
How fair his fragrant blossoms wreathes 
Of the dark-eyed violet. 
But ah ! the sons of joy forget, 

' Tlie eminent virtuoso, died 1852. 


(Who the fierce splendours of the summer sky, 
In the green depth of laurel-groves defy ;) 

How autumn's ripening hand was wont to pour 
The orchard frnits from every golden tree, 
And o'er the ruddy fallows smiled to see 

The olive drop its fat and mellow shower. 

How stern old Cato's shaggy brows would bend ; 

How darkly glare our founder's angry look ; 

For ill could they the conscript fathers brook 
To see yon marble porticos extend 
Wooing the North his breezy shades to lend 

From many a mountain nook. 

The green turf was their humble bed, 

Their costliest canopy the wild- wood tree ; 
While its rich breast the marble quarry spread. 
And high the temple rear'd its stately head 
In honour of the deity. 


ODE XV r. 


Otkim Bi'oos rogat in pdtenti. 

EASE is the weary merchant's prayer. 
Who plonghs by night the ^gean flood. 
When neither moon nor stars appear, 
Or faintly glimmer through the cloud. 

For ease, the Mede, with quiver graced. 

For ease, the Thracian hero sighs, 
Delightful ease all pant to taste, 

A blessing which no treasure buys. 

' Rev. John Mitford, clergyman, poet, and critic. He was editor 
of the " Gentleman's Magazine " from 1834 to 1850. 



For neither gold can lull to rest, 
Nor all a consul's guard beat off 

The tumults of a troubled breast, 
The cares that haunt a gilded roof. 

Happy the man whose table shows 
A few clean ounces of old plate, 

No fear intrudes on his repose, 
No sordid wishes to be great. 

Poor short-lived things, what plans we lay ! 

Ah ! why forsake our native home ? 
To distant climates speed away ; 

For self sticks close where'er we roam. 

Care follows hard, and soon o'ertakes 
The well-rigg'd ship, the warlike steed. 

Her destined quarry ne'er forsakes, 
Not the wind flies with half her speed. 

From anxious fears of future ill. 

Guard well the cheerful, happy now ; 

Gild e'en your sorrows with a smile, 
No blessing is unmix'd below. 

Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds, 
Thy numerous flocks around thee graze, 

And the best purple Tyre affords 
Thy robe magnificent displays. 

On me indulgent Heaven bestow'd 
A rural mansion, neat and small ; 

This lyre ; — and, as for yonder crowd. 
The happiness to hate them all. 




ISon ebwr neque av/remn. 

That he's content with his small rent ; 

When richer still doe crave. 
And for more look by hooh or crook, 

Though one foot in the grave. 

NO ivory ceeling, nor roofe adorned 
With light out-streaming gold ia my house 
shineth ; 
No beames from Hymet press pillars formed 
Where the sky-touching hill Affrick confineth. 
No wealth by ill m'eanes doe I win, 
Nor for mee clyents purple spin. 

But of trust and wit some store have I : 

To me but poor, come men rais'd high by fortune : 
More of the Gods themselves ne'r crave I, 

Nor greater things of my great friend importune : 
I wish not for more land or rent, 
Sabine alone yeelds me content. 

One day another day expelleth, 

New moons soon die : thou marble-trimmers hyrest, 
Ready to go where Pluto dwelleth ; 

And, building, vainely to long life aspirest. 

Prom Neptune thou the shore dost steale away, 
Incroaching on the angry sea. 

What should I tell, how 'gainst all order. 

Thy neighbour's land-marks alwaies thou removest, 
And from thy tenants that upon thee border, 

Ground pilfers ; thou from house and home out- 
Both man and wife, that wailing beare 
Their household gods and children deare. 



Yet hast thou (rich Lord) no assurance 

So great of any house where thou remained, 
As that thou shalt be kept in durance 

Of all-devouring hell, and there restrained. 
What wilt thou ? none the grave can shun : 
It takes the king, and the king's sonne. 

Nor was hell's catch-pole with gold bribed 

Wily Prometheus backward to bring againe : 
He boasting Tantalus derided, 

And his proud off-spring though theycry'd out amaine. 
He easeth men oast down with woe, 
Whether they call on him or no. 




Bacohwrn im remotis camdna rn/pihvs. 

BACCHUS on far rocks his lays 
Teaching — trust me, future days — 
Listening nymphs, and hnsh'd by awe 
Satyrs with pricked ears I saw. 
Evoe ! flutters still my soul : 
Through my god-thrill'd bosom roll 
Tumults ! Spare me, Bacchus, hear 
Dreadful with thine ivy spear ! 
Grant me Bacchantes wild to sing. 
Wines and milk's o'erflowing spring. 
And the treasures of the bee. 
Trickling from the hollow tree : 

' Translator of "Certain (16) selected Odes of Horace Englished, 
and their arguments annexed (1621)." 


Grant me, tuneful, to declare 
Ariadne's circlet star. 
And with agony of pain, 
Penthens and Lycurgus slain. 
Rivers thou, and barbarous sea 
Sway'st; on mountains tipsily, 
Thou with harmless vipers twined 
Dost the Thracians' tresses bind. 
Thou, when impious Titans strove 
To invade the realms of Jove, 
Cheek'd and paw'd as lion fell, 
Didst their giant-chief repel ; 
Thou for dancing form'd and wit, 
Thou for war was deem'd unfit : 
Yet in battle, and in peace. 
Equal were thine energies. 
Thee with golden horn array' d. 
Calm, the three tongued Dog survey'd ; 
And to honour thy retreat, 
Wagg'd his tail, and lick'd thy feet. 



Non usitatu, non tenid fera/r. 

BORNE on no weak or vulgar wing. 
Upward through air, two form'd I'll spring ; 
Nor longer grovel here, but soar 
Where envy shall pursue no more. 
Not I, from humble lineage sprung, 
Not I, dear Patron, whom thy tongue 
Summons to fame, will fear to die, 
Or bound by Styx's fetters lie. 


A rougher skin my legs assume ; 
My upward limbs the cygnets' plume 
Invests ; my shoulders, fingers feel 
The feathery softness o'er them steal. 

Fleeter than Icarus now I'll haste, 
A tuneful swan, to Libya's waste 
And heaving sands, where Bospor's wave 
Tosses, or Arctic tempests rave. 
Me Colchis, Dacia me shall learn, 
Who hides her fear of Marsian stem ; 
Me Scythia's hordes, the well-trained son 
Of Spain, ajid he who quaffs the Rhone. 

From my mock bier be far away 
The loud lament, the funeral lay ; 
And, tribute to my fancied doom. 
Far the vain honours of the tomb. 




ODE I. (Paraphrased.) 
Odi profcmu/m vulgios et a/roeo, 

HENCE, ye profane ! I hate you all ; 
Both the great vulgar and the small. 
To virgin minds, which yet their native whiteness hold, 
Not yet discoloured with the love of gold, 

That jaundice of the soul, 
(Which makes it look so gilded and so foul,) 
To you, ye very few, these truths I tell ; 
The Muse inspires my song ; hark and observe it well. 

We look on men and wonder at such odds 
'Twixt things that were the same by birth ; 
We look on kings, as giants of the earth. 

Those giants are but pigmies to the gods. 
The humblest bush and proudest oak 
Are but of equal proof against the thunder-stroke, 
Beauty and strength, and wit, and wealth, and power. 

Have their short flourishing hour ; 

And love to see themselves, and smile, 
And joy in their pre-eminence awhile ; 

Bv'n so in the same land 
Poor weeds, rich corn, gay flowers, together stand ; 
Alas ! death mows down all with an impartial hand ; 
And all ye men, whom greatness does so please, 

Ye feast, I fear, like Damocles : 

If ye, your eyes, could upwards move, 
(But ye, I fear, think nothing is above,) 
Te would perceive by what a little thread, 

The sword still hangs over your head : 


No tide of wine would drown your cares ; 
No mirtt or music over-noise your fears : 
The fear of death, would you so watchful keep, 
As not t'admit the image of it. Sleep. 
Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces, 
And yet so humble too, as not to scorn 

The meanest country cottages : 

His poppy grows among the corn. 
The halcyon Sleep will never build his nest 
In any stormy breast. 
'Tis not enough that he does find 
Clouds and darkness in their mind ; 
Darkness but half his work will do : 
'Tis not enough ; he must find quiet too. 
The man, who in all wishes he does make. 

Does only Nature's counsel take. 
That wise and happy man will never fear 

The evil aspects of the year ; 
Nor tremble, though two comets should appear ; 
He does not look in almanacks to see 

Whether he fortunate shall be : 
Let Mars and Saturn in the heavens conjoin, 
And what they please against the world design. 

So Jupiter within him shine. 
If of your pleasures and desires no end be found, 
God to your cares and fears will set no bound. 

What would content you ? who can tell ? 
Te fear so much to lose what ye have got. 

As if ye liked it well ; 
Te strive for more, as if ye liked it not. 

Go level hills, and fill up seas, 
Spare nought that may your wanton fancy please ; 
But, trust me, when you have done all this. 
Much will be missing still, and much will be amiss. 



ODE II. (Pai-t.)' 
Dulee et deconi/m est pro patria mori. 

HOW blees'd is he, who for his country dies, 
Since death pursues the coward as he flies ! 
The youth in vain would fly from fate's attack, 
With trembling knees, and terror at his back : 
Though fear should lend him pinions like the wind, 
Yet swifter fate will seize him from behind. 
Virtue repulsed, yet knows not to repine, 
But shall with unattainted honour shine ; 
Nor stoops to take the staff", nor lays it down, 
Just as the rabble please to smile or frown. 
Virtue, to crown her favourites, loves to try 
Some new untrodden passage to the sky : 
Where Jove a seat among the gods will give 
To those who die, for meriting to live. 
Next faithful silence hath a sure reward ; 
Within our breast be every secret barred ! 
He who betrays his friend shall never be 
Under one roof, or in one ship with me ; 
For who with traitors would his safety trust 
Lest, with the wicked, Heaven involve the just ? 
And though the villain 'scape awhile, he feels 
Slow vengeance, like a bloodhound, at his heels.^ 


1 To the Earl of Oxford, late Lord Treasurer, sent to him when 
in the Tower, 1716. 

' " Seldom the villain though much haste he make 
Lame-footed vengeance fails to overtake." 

Sir Waltek Ealeigh. 


Juafmrn aa tenacem propositi vinmi. 

THE man resolv'd and steady to his trust, 
Inflexible to all and obstinately just, 
May the rnde rabble's insolence despise, 
Their senseless clamours, and tumnltnous cries : 

The tyrant's fierceness he beguiles. 
And the stern brow, and the harsh voice defies, 
And with superior greatness smiles. 

Not the rough whirlwind that deforms 
Adria's black gulf and vexes it with storms, 
The stubborn virtue of his soul can move ; 
Not the red arm of angry Jove, 
That flings the thunder from the sky, 
And gives it rage to roar, and strength to fly. 

Should the whole frame of nature round him break. 

In ruin, and confusion hurl'd. 
He, unconcern'd would hear the mighty crack, 

And stand secure, amidst a falling world. 

Such were the god-like arts that led 

Bright Pollux to the blest abodes ; 
Such did for great Alcides plead. 

And gain'd a place among the gods ; 
Where now Augustus, mix'd with heroes, lies 
And to his lips, the nectar bowl applies ; 
His ruddy lips, the purple tincture show, 
And with immortal stains, divinely glow. 

By arts like these, did young Lyseus rise: 
His tigers drew him to the skies, 


Wild from flie desert and nnbroke ; 

In vain they foam'd, in vain they star'd, 

In vain their eyes with fnfy glar'd ; 
He tam'd 'em to the lash, and bent 'em to the yoke. 

Such were the paths that Rome's great founder trod, 

When in a whirlwind snatch'd on high, 

He shook off dull mortality, 
And lost the monarch in the God. 
Bright Juno then her awful silence broke, 
And thus th' assembled deities bespoke, 

" Troy," says the Goddess, " perjnr'd Troy has felt 

The dire effects of her proud tyrant's guilt : 

The towering pile and soft abodes, 

Wall'd by the hands of servile Gods, 

Now spreads its ruins all around, 

And lies inglorious on the ground ; 

An umpire, partial and unjust, 

And a lewd woman's impious lust 

Lay heavy on her head, and sunk her to the dust. 

Since false Laomedon's tyrannic sway. 

That durst defraud th' Immortals of their pay. 

Her guardian Gods renounc'd their patronage, 

Nor would the fierce invading foe repel : 
To my resentments, and Minerva's rage. 

The guilty king and the whole people fell. 

And now the long protracted wars are o'er, 
The soft adult'rer shines no more ; 
No more does Hector's force the Trojans shield, 
That drove whole armies back, and singly clear'd the 

My vengeance sated, I, at length, resign 
To Mars his offspring of the Trojan line : 


Advano'd to Godhead, let him rise 
And take his station in the skies ; 
There enteftain his ravish'd sight, 
With scenes of glory, fields of light ; 
Qnaff with the Gods immortal wine, 
And see adoring nations crowd his shrine : 

The thin remains of Troy's afflicted host. 
In distant realms may seats nnenvied find, 

And flourish on a foreign coast ; 

But far be Rome from Troy disjoin'd, 

Remov'd by seas from the disastrous shore, 

May endless billows rise between, and storms unnum- 
ber'd roar. 

Still let the curs'd detested place. 
Where Priam lies, and Priam's faithless race. 
Be cover'd o'er with weeds, and hid in grass. 
There let the wanton flocks, unguarded, stray ; 

Or while the lonely shepherd sings, 
Amidst the mighty ruins play, 

And frisk upon the tombs of kings. 

May tigers there, and all the savage kind, 

Sad solitary haunts, and silent deserts find : 

In gloomy vaults, and nooks of palaces. 

May th' unmolested lioness 

Her brindled whelps securely lay, 

Or, couch'd in dreadful slumbers, waste the day. 

While Troy, in heaps of ruins, lies, 

Rome and the Roman Capitol shall rise ; 

Th' illustrious exiles, nnconfin'd, 

Shall triumph far and near, and rule mankind. 

In vain the sea's intruding tide 
Europe from Afric shall divide, 


And part the sever'd world in two, 

Through. Afric's sands their triumphs they shall 
spread ; 
And the long train of victories pursue 

To Nile's yet nndiscover'd head. 

Riches the hardy soldier shall despise, 

And look on gold with nndesiring eyes. 

Nor the disbowell'd earth explore. 

In search of the forbidden ore : 

Those glitt'ring ills, conceal'd within the mine, 

Shall lie untouch'd, and innocently shine. 

To the last bounds that nature sets, 

The piercing colds and sultry heats, 

The god-like race shall spread their arms : 

Now fill the polar circle with alarms. 

Till storms and tempests their pursuits confine : 

Now sweat for conquest, underneath the line. 

This only law the victor shall restrain, 

On these conditions shall he reign : 

If none his guilty hand employ. 

To build again a second Troy, 

If none the rash design pursue 

Nor tempt the vengeance of the Gods anew. 

A^ curse there cleaves to the devoted place. 
That shall the new foundations raze. 
Greece shall in mutual leagues conspire 
To storm the rising town, with fire, 
And, at their army's head, myself will show 
What Juno, urged to all her rage, can do. 

Thrice, should Apollo's self the city raise, 
And line it round with walls of brass, 


Thrice, should my fav'rite Greeks his works confound, 
And hew the shining fabric to the ground ; 
Thrice, should her captive dames to Grreece return, 
And their dead sons, and slaughter'd husbands mourn," 

But, hold ! my Muse, forbear thy towering flight, 

Nor bring the secrets of the Gods to light : 

In vain would thy presumptuous verse 

Th' immortal rhetoric rehearse ; 

The mighty strains, in lyric numbers bound, 

Forget their majesty, and lose their sound. 


THE SAME. (Fragment.) 

THE man of firm and noble soul 
No factious clamours can control : 
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow 

Can swerve him from his just intent : 
Gales, the warring waves which plough 

By Auster on the billows spent, 
To curb the Adriatic main. 
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. 

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
Hurtling his lightnings from above, 
With all his terrors there unfurl'd, 

He would, unmoved, unawed behold. 
The flames of an expiring world. 

Again in crashing chaos roll'd. 
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd, 
Might light his glorious funeral pile ; 
Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile. 


' The above fragment was Byron's solitary attempt at a poetic 
rendering of any one of the Horatian odes. " He was," says ^oore. 



Descende caelo, et die age tibia. 

DESCEND from heaven, and in a lengthen'd 
Queen of melodious sounds, the song maintain, 
Or on the voice high-raia'd, the breathing flute, 
The lyre of golden tone, or sweet Phoebean lute. 

Hark ! the celestial voice I raptur'd hear ! 
Or does a pleasing frenzy charm my ear ? 
Thro' hallow'd groves I stray, where streams beneath 
From lucid fountains flow, and zephyrs balmy breathe. 

Fatigu'd with sleep, and youthful toil of play, 
When on a mountain's brow reclin'd I lay. 
Near to my natal soil, around my head 
The fabled woodland doves a verdant foliage spread ; 

Matter, be sure, of wonder most profound 
To all the gazing habitants around. 
Who dwell in Acherontias airy glades. 
Amid the Bantian woods, or low Ferentum's meads. 

By snakes of poison black, and beasts of prey, 
That thus, in dewy sleep, unharm'd I lay ; 
Laurels and myrtle were around me pil'd. 
Not without guardian gods an animated child. 

" to the last unable to vanquish a prepossession, with which school 

association had inoculated him, against Horace." 

" Then farewell Horace : whom I hated so 
Not for thy faults but mine : it is a curse 
To understana, not feel thy lyric flow, 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse." 

Childe Harold. 


Tours I am ever, tarmonious Nine, 
Whether I joy in Tibiir's vale supine ; 
Whether I climb the Sabine mountain's height. 
Or in PrsBneste's groves or Baisen streams delight. 

Nor tree devoted, nor tempestuous main, 
Nor flying hosts, that swept Philippi's plain 
In fearful rout, your filial bard destroy'd, 
While in your springs divine, and choral sports hejoy'd. 

When by the Muses faithful guidance led. 
On Lybia's thirsty sands I'll fearless tread, 
Or climb the venturous bark, and launch from shore, 
Tho' Bosphorus arous'd with madding horrors roar. 

Nor Britons of inhospitable strain. 
Nor quiver'd Scythians, nor the Caspian main, 
Nor he who joyous quafis the thirsty bowl. 
Streaming with horse's blood, shall shake my dauntless 

When Csesar by your forming arts inspir'd. 
Cheerful disbands his troops, of conquest tir'd ; 
And yields to willing peace his laurel'd spoils. 
In the Pierian cave you charm the hero's toils ; 

Gracious from you the lenient counsels flow. 
Which bid the hero spare his prostrate foe : 
For Caesar rules like Jove, whose equal sway 
The ponderous mass of earth, and stormy seas obey '.^ 

' " Who rules the duller earth, the wind-swollen streams, 
The civil cities and the infernal realms, 
Who the host of hearen and the mortal band 
Alone doth govern by his just command." 

SiE Waltek Raleigh. 

These fragmentary poetical translations occur in the " History of 
the World." 

ODES. BOOK in. 81 

O'er gods and mortals, o'er the dreary plains, 
And shadowy ghosts, supremely just he reigns, 
But, dreadful in his wrath, to hell pnrsu'd. 
With falling thunders dire, the fierce Titanian hrood, 

Whose horrid youth, elate with impious pride, 
Unnumber'd, on their sinewy force relied ; 
Mountain on mountain pil'd, they rais'd in air. 
And shook the throne of Jove, and bade the Thunderer 

But what could Mimas, of enormous might, 
Typhcens or Porphyrion's threat'ning height, 
Or bold Enceladus fierce-darting far 
The trunks of trees uptorn, dire archer of the war, 

To sage Minerva's clashing shield oppose, 
Altho' with headlong rage inspir'd they rose ? 
While Vulcan here in flames devour'd his way. 
There matron Juno stood, and there the God of Day, 

Resolv'd, till he had quell'd th* aspiring foe. 
Never to lay aside the unerring bow ; 
Who the pure dews of fair Castalia loves, 
There bathes his flowing hair, and haunts his natal 

lU-counsell'd force, by its own native weight, 
Headlong to ruin falls ; with happier fate 
While the good gods upraise the just design, 
But bold, nnhallow'd schemes pursue with wrath 

This truth shall hundred-handed Gyas prove, 
And warm Orion, who, with impious love 
Tempting the goddess of the sylvan scene. 
Was by her virgin darts, gigantic victim ! slain. 



On her own monsters hurl'd with hideous weight, 
Pond mother Earth deplores her oflEspring's fate, 
By thunders dire to livid Orcus doom'd, 
Nor fire can force its way thro' ^tna unconsum'd. 

Such are the pains to lawless lust decreed ; 
On Tityos' growing liver vultures feed 
With rage ungorg'd, while Pluto stern detains 
His amorous rival bound in thrice an hundred chains . 


Goelo ionomiem credidmius Jovem. 

JOVE'S power the thunder peal proclaims ; 
Britain's and Parthia's hated names, 
Inscrib'd mid Caesar's victories 
Exalt the hero to the skies. 
And has thy soldier, Crassus, wived 
With a barbarian, meanly lived ? 
Beneath a Median standard ranged, 
(O Senate shamed ! O manners changed !) 
Mail'd in & foreign sire's array, 
Has the stern Marsian's brow grown grey — 
Vesta, race, robe, and rites forgot. 
As if great Home, Rome's Jove were not ? 
This, patriot Eegulus foreknew ; 
And spurn'd, to home and honour true, 
The terms whose chronicled disgrace 
Would paralyze each rising race. 
If they, who bore to live in chains, 
Pined not unwept. " In Punic fanes 
Rome's captive banner hung (he cried,) 
These eyes have witness'd ; from a side 
Gash'd by no wound the sword resign'd. 
And cords round Roman arms entwined ; 


Carthage flung open, and her field 
(Erst our rich spoil) securely till'd ! 
Hope ye more brave a ransom'd race ? 
Ye couple damage with disgrace. 
Alas ! once tinctur'd for the loom, 
Ne'er will the fleece its snow resume ; 
Nor valour sullied by a stain 
Renew its fire, and glow again. 
If stag released will brave the fight, 
Then count upon that soldier's might, 
Who once has trusted treacherous foe : 
Then deem he'll strike heroic blow, 
Who once has felt the hostile cord, 
And quiver'd at a Punic sword. 
'Twas his, in wild despair of life. 
To crouch for peace 'mid battle's strife 
mighty Carthage, rear'd to fame, 
On ruin of the Roman name ! " 

And thus, his wife's chaste kiss declined. 

His infants clinging arms untwined, 

With eyes cast down, in sternest mood, 

The self-attainted warrior stood : 

Till he the wavering Senate bent 

With counsel beyond precedent. 

And midst his weeping friends' dismay, 

Illustrious exile ! hied away. 

Though well, alas ! he knew what woes 

Were meant him by his savage foes ; 

Through kin, through crowds before him cast, 

With foot as firm the hero past 

As if each client's petty broil 

Duly composed, from civil toil 

He turn'd to some Venaran dome 

Or far Tarentum's quiet home. 




Deliota ma^onrwm vm/meritv,s lues. 

THOSE ills your ancestors have done, 
Romans ! are now become your own : 
And they will cost yon dear, 
Unless you soon repair 
The falling .temples, which the gods proToke, 
And statues, sullied yet with sacrilegious smoke. 
Propitious Heaven, that raised your fathers high 
For humble grateful piety, 
(As it rewarded their respect) 
Hath sharply punish'd your neglect. 
All empires on the gods depend, 
Begun by their command, at their command they end. 

Let Crassus' ghost and Labienus tell 

How twice, by Jove's revenge, our legions fell, 

And with insulting pride. 
Shining in Boman spoils, the Parthian victors ride. 
The Scythian and Egyptian scum 

Had almost ruined Borne, 

While our seditions took their part, 

Fill'd each Egyptian sail, and wing'd each Scythian dart. 

First these flagitious times 

(Pregnant with unknown crimes) 

Conspire to violate the nuptial bed, 

From which polluted head 

Infectious streams of crowding sins began, 

And through the spurious breed and guilty nation ran. 

Behold a fair and melting maid 

Bound 'prenticie to a common trade ; 


Ionian artists, at a miglity price, 

Instruct her in the mysteries of vice. 

What nets to spread, where subtle baits to lay, 

And, with an early hand, they form the temper'd clay. 

'Tis not the spawn of such as these. 
That dy'd with Punic blood the conquer'd seas. 

And quash'd the stern ^acides ; 
Made the proud Asian monarch feel 
How weak his gold was 'gainst Europe's steel : 

Forc'd e'en dire Hannibal to yield, 
And won the long disputed world, at Zama's fatal field. 

But soldiers of a rustic mould, 

Rough, hardy, season' d, manly, bold; 

Either they dug the stubborn ground. 
Or, through hewn woods, their weighty strokes did 
sound ; 

And after the declining sun 
Had chang'd the shadows, and their task was done. 
Home with their weary team they took their way, 
And drown'd in friendly bowls the labour of the day. 

Time sensibly all things 'impairs ; 

Our fathers have been worse than theirs ; 

And we than ours ; next age will see 

A race more profligate than we, 
With all the pains we take, have skill enough to be. 



Qidd fles, Asterie, quern tibi candicK. 

WHY weepest Asterie ? when in the first spring. 
The western winds thy Gyges home will bring. 
Rich with Bithynian wars, whose constant love 
In him being young, from thee shall ne're remove. 


Who with strong gales, and tempests great from heaven, 

Against his will, now into Greece is driven ; 

Where the cold nights with watching he doth spend, 

And from his eyes with sorrow tears doth send. 

When as a subtile messenger is sent 

From Chloe, who doth many ways invent 

Her loves to tell, like that perfidious wife 

Who did deprive Bellerophon of life, 

Then tells of Peleus being almost slaine. 

Whilst from Hippolite's love he did refraine, 

Tet cunningly more stories doth relate 

Teaching in vain those sins which he did hate ; 

But he being sound, those words with deafer ear 

Than the Icarian rocks, from him did hear. 

So take you heed, least that Enipius vile 

With his lascivious lusts doth thee beguile. 

Though none can manage a horse like to him. 

Or any swifter through the Tiber swim. 

When night comes shut thy doors, nor do look out 

When his shrill sounding pipe doth come about : 

And though he often doth thee cruel name, 

Tet be thou constant, and alwayes the same. 

John Smith. 



Ma/rUis coelebs qwid ogam Gahnd/is. 

LEARNED Msecenas, wonder not that I, 
(A batchelor) invoke that deity. 
Which at this feast the married rout adore, 
And yearly do implore. 


Tkey pray the gods to make their burden light, 
And that their yokefellows may never fight : 
I praise them, not for giving me a wife, 
But saving of my life. 

By heav'n redeem'd, I 'scap'd a falling tree, 
And yearly own that strange delivery. 
Yearly rejoyce, and drink the briskest wine, 

Nor spill it at their shrine. 

Come (my Maecenas) let us drink, and thus 
Cherish that life, those powers have given us : 
A thousand cups to midwife this new birth 
With inofiensive mirth. 

No state afiairs near my Maecenas come, 
Since all are fain that fought victorious Rome. 
By civil broils the Medes, our foes, will fall 
The weakest to the wall. 

Our fierce and ancient enemy of Spain 

Is now subdu'd, and tamely bears our chain. 

The savage Scythian too begins to yield, 

About to quit the field ! 

Bear they the load of government that can ; 
Thou, since a private, and good-natur'd man, 
Enjoy th' advantage of the present hour. 

For why should'st thou look sour ? 

Thomas Flatman.' 

' Author of some forgotten poems, and of one " On Marriage," 
which survives in Looker's " Lyra Elegantiarum." He died 1688. 



Donee gratus errnn tibi. 


WHILE, Lydia, I was loved of thee, 
Nor any was preferr'd 'fore me 
To hug thy whitest neck, than I 
The: Persian king lived not more happily. 

While thoti no other didst affect. 
Nor Chloe was of more respect. 
Than Lydia, far fam'd Lydia, 
I flourish'd more than Roman Ilia. 

Now Thracian Chloe governs me, 
Skilfal in harp and melody, 
For whose affection, Lydia, I, 
So fate spares her, am well content to die. 

My heart now set on fire is. 
By Omithes' son, yonng Calais ; 
For whose commutual flames here I, 
To save his life, twice am content to die. 

Say, our first loves we should revoke 
And, severed, join in brazen yoke — 
Admit I, Chloe, put away. 
And love, again love cast-off Lydia ? 


Though mine be brighter than the star ; 
Thou lighter than the cork by far, 
Rough as the Adriatic sea, yet I 
Will live with thee, or else for thee will die. 




WHILST I was fond, and you were kind, 
Nor any dearer youth, reclined 
On your soft bosom sought to rest, 
Phraates was not half so bless'd. 


Whilst you adored no other face, 
Nor loved me in the second place. 
My happy, celebrated fame 
Outshone e'en Ilia's envied name. 

Me, Chloe now possesses whole, 
Her voice and lyre command my soul ; , ; 

Nor would I death itself decline. 
Could her life ransom'd be with mine. 


For me the lovely Calais burns. 
And, warmth for warmth, my heart returns, 
Twice would I life with joy resign. 
Could his be ransom'd once with mine. 


What if sweet love, whose bands we broke, 
Again should tame us to the yoke ; 
Should banish'd Ghloe cease to reign, 
And Lydia her lost power regain ? 

Though Hesper be less fair than he^ . 
Thou wilder than the raging sea. 
Lighter than down ; yet gladly I 
With thee would live, with thee would die. 

Bishop Atteebuet.^ 


'Exivem/wm Tanam si Inheres, Lyce. 

LTCE ! Lyce ! were thy charms 
Doom'd to some barbarian's arms ; 
Didst thou quaff the Tanais' waves : 
Still should pity mourn his fate, 
Who, before thy cruel gate, 

Peels the blast, the tempest braves. 

' Dr. Atterbury's two translations from Horace, the above, and 
ode iii. book It. have attained a wide celebrity. He wrote a trans- 
lation in verse of the First Eclogue of Virgil's Bucolics, to which 
a peculiar interest attaches from the appropriateness of the allusions 
to the writer's own circumstances, he being then an exile in Paris, 
in the decline of his years, suffering under poverty and ill health, 
and hopeless of revisiting his native land. 

" We, alas ! distress'd and driv'n from home, 
O'er Lybian sands or Scythian plains must roam : 
Shall ever I, when many years have roU'd, 
My much lov'd native soil again behold ? 
Shall yon fair lawn be the rough soldiei''s lot ? 
Shall foreign landlords mow that fertile spot ? 
Behold ! the blessings civil discord yields I 
Behold ! for whom we till'd and sow'd our fields," &c. 


Mark, oh mark ! the hollow roar 
Fills the grove, thy ratt'Iing door 

Echoes to the passing winds ! 
Whilst with purer air below, 
Jove congeals the spreading snow, 

Snow that icy chillness binds. 

Quit that stern, that haughty mien ! 
Hateful to love's gentle queen ; 

Wheels once loos'd shall backward haste. 
OflEspring of a Tuscan sire. 
Canst thou frown on soft desire ? 

Tlmu, Penelope, the chaste ? 

Though my prayers, the gifts I send, 
Fail thy stubborn heart to bend ; 

Though my cheeks as violet pale ; 
Though no just resentment rise 
When thy lord to harlots flies. 

Hear, oh hear, love's tender tale ! 

Hard as knotted oaks to break. 
Fiercer than the Moorish snake, 

Tet attend these parting strains ! 
Thinkst thou, this my wearied side 
Long thy threshold can abide, 

Pierc'd by cold, and chill'd by rains ? 

William Boscawen." 

' Author of a translation of Horace, 1793-98. "A work in the 
judgment of all classical men very greatly superior to Francis's 
translation, in many essential points of merit." — Chalmebs. 



Mercwfi, nam te docilis magistro. 

OMERCURT ! (for taught by you 
Deaf stones by tb' ears Amphion drew) 
And shell, whose hollow belly rings 

With seven strings : 

Once mute and graceless, now the tongue 
Of feasts and temples : lend a song 
To thrid the maze of Lyde's prayre- 

Besisting eare. 

Who like a three years' colt doth fetch 
A hundred rings, and 's hard to catch : 
Free from a husband, and not fit 

For backing yet. 

Thou mak'st stiff forests march, retreate 
Prone rivers : Cerberus the great 
Porter of Hell, to thee gave way 

Stroak'd with a lay, 

Though with a hundred snakes he curie 
His head, and from his nostrils hurle 
A filthy stream, which all bedrops 

His triple chops. 

Izion too with a forct smile 
Did grin. The tubs stood dry awhile : 
Whilst with thy musiok thou didst please 

The Belides. 


Tell Lyde that : that virgin-slaughter, 
And famous torment, the vain water 
Coozing their urnes through thousand draines : 

And posthume paius 

For cruel maides laid up in store. 
Cruel ! for what could they do more, 
That could with unrelenting steel 

Their lovers kill ? 

One only worthy Hymen's flame, 
And worthy of immortal fame, 
Her perjur'd father (pious child !) 

Bravely beguU'd : 

Who said to her young husband : Wake ! 

Least an eternal sleep thou, take 

When least thou lookest ; deceive my sire 

And sisters dire. 

Who like so many tigers tear 
(Alas !) the prey : I (tenderer) 
Will neither slay, nor keep thee thus 

I'th' slaughter-house. 

Me let my savage father chain, 
Because my husband is unslain. 
Or into farthest Africa, 

Ship me away. 

By land or sea, take thou thy flight, 
Cover'd with wings of love and night : 
Go, go, and write when thou art safe, 

My epitaph ! 

Sir R. Fanshawe. 


ODE xn, 


Misera/rum est, neque Amori dare l/ucl/wm, neque d/ulci. 

"~r^IS hard to be deny'd to prove 

X The soft delights of pleasing love, 
'Tis hard to be deny'd to play, 
And with sweet wine wash cares away ; 
Still to be tost with doubting fear, 
Lest angry friends should prove severe, 
And with sharp chidings wound our ear. 
Young wanton Cupid's darts and bow 
Have foro't thy spindle from thee now, 
Thy wool, and all Minerva's toyls 
Are charming Hebrus' beauties' spoyls ; 
He lives thy mind's continual theme, 
And you can think on nought but him ; 
Hebrus, a youth of manly force. 
None sits so well the manag'd horse j 
Bellerophon would strive in vain 
To guide with so gentile a rein : 
In all he shows a manly grace, 
In cuffing stout, and swift in race : 
When his oyl'd arms have cut the flood. 
In swimming strong ; he takes the wood. 
Through plains pursues the flying doe, 
And shoots with an unerring bow ; 
Or else for boars his toyls he sets, 
And takes them foaming in his nets. 



ODE xm. 


fons Bcmcl/usicB, splencHdior vitro, 

YE wares, that gushing fall with purest stream, 
Bandnsian fount ! to whom the products sweet 
Of richest wines belong. 
And fairest flowers of spring ; 
To thee a chosen victim will I slay, 
A kid, who glowing in lascivious youth, 

Just blooms with budding horn, 
And, in vara thought elate, 
Yet destines future war : but ah ! too soon 
His reeking blood with crimson shall enrich 

Thy pure translucent flood, 
And tinge thy crystal clear. 
Thy sweet recess the sun in mid-day hour 
Can ne'er invade ; thy streams the labour'd ox 

Refresh with cooling draught. 
And glad the wand'ring herds. 
Thy name shall shine, with endless honours graced, 
While on my shell I sing, the nodding oak. 

That o'er thy cavern deep 
Waves his embowering head. 
J. Waeton.' 

' Rev. JosepTi Warton, the editor of Pope, brother to Thos. 
Warton the laureat. 



BANDUSIA ! more than crystal clear ! 
Whose soothing murmurs charm the ear ! 
Whose margin soft, with flow'rets crown'd, 
Invites the festive band around, 
Their careless limbs diffused, supine. 
To quaff the soul-enlivening wine. 

To thee a tender kid I vow, 
That aims for light his budding brow, 
In thought, the wrathful combat proves, 
Or wantons wiih his little loves : 
But vain are all his purposed schemes. 
Delusive all his flattering dreams ; 
To-morrow shall his fervent blood 
Stain the pure silver of thy flood. 

When fiery Sirius blasts the plain, 
Untouch'd thy gelid streams remain. 
To thee the fainting flocks repair 
To taste thy cool reviving air ; 
To thee, the ox, with toil oppress'd, 
And lays his languid limbs at rest. 

As springs of old renown'd, thy name, 
Bless'd fountain ! I devote to fame, 
Thus, while I sing in deathless lays 
The verdant holm, whose waving sprays, 
The sweet retirement to defend, 
High o'er the moss-grown rook impend, 
Whence prattling in loquacious play, 
Thy sprightly waters leap away. 

James Bbattie.' 

' The author of " The Minstrel." 



InohiiSam Dcmaen Uirris aenea. 

THE lone gray tower on Argo's monntain shore, 
The faithful watch-dog at the midnight door ; 
Safe in their guard, imprison'd love had slept, 
Her bafiSed suitors youthful Danae wept. 
But, with rich bribes, the laughing gods betray'd 
The yielding guardian, and the enamour'd maid, 
Through armed satellites and walls of stone. 
Gold wings its flight, resistless though alone.' 

Ah ! who the wiles of womankind hath tried ? 
By gold, the priest, the blameless augur died. 
Mark Philip's march ! the obedient cities fall, 
Ope the wide gates, and yields the embattled wall.^ 
To gold each petty tyrant sank a prey, 
King after king confess'd its powerful sway ; 

' The brazen tower with doors close barred, 
And watchful bandogs fi-iehtful guard, 

Kept safe the maideunead 
Of Danae from secret love, 
'Till smiling Venus and wise Jove 

Beguiled her father's dread : 
For, changed into a golden shower. 
The god into her lap did pour 

Himself and took his pleasure. 
Through guards and stony walls to break, 
The thunderbolt is far more weak 

Than is a golden treasure. 

SiK Walter Raleigh. 

' By gifts the Macedon clave gates asunder. 
The kings, envying his estate, brought under. 



On wisdom's patriot voice the siren hnng, 
And stay'd the thunders of the Athenian tongue ; 
The war-worn veteran oft his trophies sold ; 
And venal navies own'd the power of gold. 

Enlarging wealth increasing wishes share, 

The Gods have curs'd the miser's hoard with care ; 

To modest worth are choicest blessings sent ; 

Heaven loves the humble virtues of content. 

Far from the rich thy poet loves to dwell, 

And share the silence of the hermit's cell. 

The wild brook, babbling down the mountain's side ; 
The chesnut copse that spreads its leafy pride ; 
The garden plot that asks but little room ; 
The ripening cornfield, and the orchard's bloom ; 
These simple pleasures, trust me, are unknown 
To the rich palace, or the jewell'd throne ; 
The wealthy lords of Afric's wide domain 
Would spurn my lowly roof, and bounded plain. 

Cold are the Sabine hills ! hives not for me 
Its hoarded nectar, the Calabrian bee. 
Here no rich vines their amber clusters rain, 
Not mine the fleece that decks Gallioia's plain. 
Tet want, for once, avoids a poet's door, 
Content and grateful, can I ask for more ? 
But should thy bard seek ampler means to live, 
Patron and friend ! thy liberal hand would give. 

What if increasing wealth with-holds its shower ? 
If the rich widow guards her jealous dower ? 
Then, wiser, learn the effect is still the same, 
From humbler wishes, and contracted aim. 
More wealthy thou, than if thy lands could join 
All Phrygia's harvests, to the Lydian mine : 


Not want alone surrounds the opening door, 

For pride and avarice are ever poor ; 

Delusive hope, and wild desire combined, 

Feed with vain thoughts the hunger of the mind. 

But bless'd is he to whom indulgent Heaven, 

Man's happiest state, enough, not more, has given. 




^U, vetusto nobilis ah Lamo. 


He Lamia's rega stem displays 
Forth, in encom,iastic layes ; 
Wills him his genius to cheer 
Against the presag'd storm appear. 


^LIUS, sprung from Lamia's ancient name. 
From whose stem all precedent Lamias came, 
And the family and tribe 

Which noting registers describe ; 

Thou from his loyns drawst thine originall, 
Who reigned first within the Formian wall, 
And whose amply-spread command 
Kaught Liris, laving Marie's strand. 

An eastern tempest shall with furious roar 
Fling leaves in woods, and weeds upon the shore, 
If the aged crow descry 
A true presaging augury. 


Lay while thou canst, dry faggots on the fire : 
With luscious wine to-morrow feed desire, 
A pig, fat, and tender slay. 

And let thy hindes keep holy-day. 

Barton Holtdat. 


Fmme, Nymphomt/m fugientwm amator. 

FAUNUS, who lov'st to chase the light-foot nymphs. 
Propitious guard my fields and sunny farm, 
And nurse, with kindly care, 
The promise of my flock ! 

So, to thy powers, a kid shall yearly bleed. 
And the full bowl to genial "Venus flow : 

And on thy rustic shrine, 

Bich odours incense breathe : 

So through, the vale the wanton herds shall bound. 
When thy December comes, and on the green 

The steer in traces loose 

With the free village sport ; 

No more the lamb shall fly the insidious wolf. 

Thq, woods shall shed their leaves, and the glad hind 

The ground, where once he dug. 

Shall beat in sprightly dance. 

J. Waeton. 

> Written in imitation of the style of Milton's " Ode to Pyrrha." 




Non vides, qua/nto moveas pericJo. 

How dangerous a thing 'twould prove 
2" abstract Nearchus from Ms love. 

PTRRHUS, how dang'rous 'tis, confess, 
To take whelps from a lyoness : 
Straight thoti 'soarr'd ravisher wilt run, 
When battel's done. 

When she through crowds of youthful men 
Shall to Nearchus turn agen. 
Great question 'tis who bears away 
The greater prey. 

As thou prepar'st thy speedy piles, 
She whets her dreadful tusks the whiles : 
He (th' umpire) trampled down (they say), 
The victor's bay. 

And wafted his sweet 'shiveled hair 
'With gentle blasts : like Nireus fair. 
Or Ganymede snatcht up from fount- 
full Ida's mount. 

Baeton Holtdat. 



TO A CASK (pa/raphrase). 

nata mecum consule Manlio. 

HAIL gentle Cask ! whose venerable head 
With hoary down and ancient dust o'erspread, 
Proclaims that since the vine first brought thee forth 
Old age has added to thy worth. 
Whether the sprightly juice thou dost contain, 
Thy votarys will to wit and love, 
Or senseless noise and lewdness move, 
Or sleep, the cure of these and every other pain. 

Since to some day propitious and great, 
Justly at first thou wast design'd by fate: 
This day, the happiest of thy many years. 
With thee I will forget my cares : 
To my Corvinus' health thou shalt go round, 

(Since thou art ripen'd for to-day. 

And longer age would bring decay,) 
Till every anxious thought in the rich stream be drown'd. 

To thee my friend his roughness shall submit. 

And Socrates himself awhile forget ; 

Thus when old Cato would sometimes unbend 

The rugged stiffness of his mind. 

Stern and severe, the Stoic quaiPd his bowl, 
His frozen virtue felt the charm. 
And soon grew pleased, and soon grew warm, 

And bless'd the sprightly power that cheer'd his gloomy 

With kind constraint ill-nature dost thou bend, 
And mould the snarling cynic to a friend. 


The sage reserved, and famed for gravity, 

Finds all he knows summ'd np in thee, 

And by thy power unlock'd, grows easy, gay, and free. 

The swain, who did some credulous nymph persuade 

To grant him all, inspired by thee, 

Devotes her to his vanity, 
And to his fellow fops toasts the abandon'd maid. 

The wretch, who, press' d beneath a load of cares. 
And labouring with continual woes, despairs, 
If thy kind warmth does his chill'd sense invade. 
From earth he rears his drooping head : 
Revived by thee, he ceases now to mourn ; 

His flying cares give way to haste, 

And to the god resigns his breast. 
Where hopes of better days and better things return. 

The laboring hind, who with hard toil and pains. 

Amidst his wants, a wretched life maintains ; 

If thy rich juice his homely supper crown, 

Hot with thy fires, and bolder grown. 

Of kings, and of theiiT arbitrary power. 

And how by impious arms they reign, 
Fiercely he talks, with rude disdain, 

And vows to be a slave, to be a wretch no more. 

Fair queen of love ! and thou, great god of wine I 
Hear every Grace, and all ye Powers Divine, 
All that to mirth and friendship do incline. 
Crown this auspicious Cask, and happy night, 
With all things that can give delight ; 
Be every care and anxious thought away ; 
Te tapers, still be bright and clear. 
Rival the moon, and each pale star ; 
Your beams shall yield to none but his who brings the 


Nicholas Rowe. 


ODE xxir. 

MontiAi/m ousios n&moriimque Virgo. 

CHASTE goddess of the radiant night, 
Who lov'st the airy mountain's height, 
And guardst the sylvan bower ; 
Who, thrice invoked with pions prayers, 
Reliev'st the teeming matron's cares, 
Sav'd by thy triple power : 

Accept this vow ! henceforth the pine 
That shades my humble roof is thine : 

Where, menacing the sight. 
Slain by my hand, a boar shall stain. 
Bach year, thy consecrated fane, 

On this returning light. 

William Bosoiwen. 


Oodo swpinas si tuleris ma/ims, 
P, rural Phidile, at the moon's arise. 


To Heaven thou lift thy hands in humble wise : 
If thou with sacrifice thy Lars wilt please, 
Or with new fruit or greedie swine appease, 
Thy fertile vineyard shall not suffer blast 
From pest'lent south, nor parching dew be cast 
Upon thy com, nor shall thy children dear, 
Feel sickly fits in autumn of the year. 


It is the long vow'd victime, which, is fed 

'Mongst holmes, and okes on snowy Algid's head, 

Or which in fat Albanian pastures grew. 

That shall the priest's sharp axe with blood imbrue. 

To thee, who petty Gods dost magmfie. 

With mirtle branch, and sprig of rosemary, 

It nothing appertains their feasts to keep 

With frequent slaughters of the fattest sheep. 

If thy hand, free from ill, the altar touch. 

Thou shalt th' offended Gods appease as much 

With gift of sparkling salt and pious meal. 

As if thou vows with costly victimes seal. 

SiE Thomas Hawkins, 


Quo me, Baoche, rapis hi/i. 

WHITHER dost thou drag me, son of Semele ! 
Me, who am lost in wine ? 
Through what lone groves, through what wild haunts 

of thine, 
Am I, iu this strange frenzy, forced to flee ? 
From what deep cavern, (as I meditate 
On peerless Caesar's fame, and deathless fate,) 
Shall I be heard, when my exulting cries 
Proclaim him, friend of Jove, and star in yon bright 

Something I'll shout — new — strange — as yet unsung 

By any other human tongue ! 
Thus, stung by thee, the sleepless Bacchanals ever 
Grow mad, whilst gazing on the Hebrus river, 


On snow-white Thrace, and Rhodope, whose crown 
Barbarian footsteps trample down : 

And oh ! like them it joys my sonl 

To wander where the rivers roll, 
To gaze npon the dark and desert groves. 
O thou great Power, whom the Naiad loves, 
And Bacchant women worship, (who overthrow 

The mighty ash-trees, as they go) 

Nothing little, nothing low. 

Nothing mortal, will I sing ! 

'Tis risk, but pleasant risk, King ! 
To follow thus, a God who loves to twine 
His jfcemples with the green and curling vine. 

Baekt Ooenwall. 


Vixipaellis nwper idoneus. 

I LATELY with young virgins did comply. 
And was in Oupid's camp renowned high ; 
Now my engins (wars at end) 
And lute I'll on this wall suspend, 
Bord'ring on sea-born Venus's left hand 
Here, here let my enlightening tapour stand, 
With my leavers and my bow. 
That barr'd up doors can open throw. 
Thou who dost o'er blest Cyprus Isle, preside, 
And Memphis where no Thracian snow can bidd, 
Queen ! with far-fetched stroke 
Once haughty Chloe's ire revoke. 

Alexaiideb Bbome. 




Impios ^a/rrce reoinentis omen. 

LET ill presages guide the ill, 
A screeching owle, or from a hill 
A she- wolf mad upon the flocks 
Or pregnant fox. 

And a snake shaft-like shot athwart 
Their horses way to make them start, 
Their journey stop. What place is here 
For provident fear ? 

Before the tempest-bidding fowl 
Descend into the standing pool, 
My prayre shall from the orient steer 
The kings-fisher. 

Be blest, wherever thou wouldst be, 
And Galatea think of me ; 
No ominous pye thy steps revoakes, 
Ko raven croakes. 

Yet pale Orion sad descends : 
I know too well what ifc portends 
When black I see the Adriatick, 
Or white th' lapick. 

Let our foes wives, and all they love 
The rising kid's blind anger prove. 
And the vext ocean when it roares 
Lashing the shores. 


Europa so, trusting her soft 
Side to the 'ticing Bull, skreekt oft, , 

The rooks and monsters to behold. 
Though she was bold. 

She that late pickt sweet flowers in medes. 
And wove meet garlands for nymph's heads, 
In a clear night could nothing spy 
But sea and sky. 

In populous Crete arriv'd soon after, 
O sire (quoth she) left by thy daughter, 
And duty in my feeble breast 
By love opprest. 

Whence, whether rapt ? one death's too small 
To expiate a virgin's fall. 
Do I (awake) true crimes lament, 
Or (innocent) 

Doth some false dream put me in pain ? 
Was't better through the horrid main 
To rove, far off : or with my Father 
Fresh flowers to gather ? 

Had I that naughty bull now here. 
How with my naUes I could him teare, 
And break the horns about that pate, 
So lov'd of late ! 

Shameless I left my sire's aboads : 
Shameless I pawse on death : ye Gods, 
(If any hear) show me the way 
Where lions stray, 

Ere my fair skin grow tann'd and loose, 
And of the tender prey the juice 
Bun out ; whilst I am plump I would 
Be tigers' food. 


Die base Enropa (whispers me 
My sire) behold yon beck'ning tree ! 
The zone from thy chaste waste nnknit 
To thy neck fit. 

Or if sharpe rocks delight for speed, 
This hanging cliff will do the deed : 
Unless (being come of royal kin) 
Th'adst rather spin, 

And be a barb'rons mistress' thrall. 
Her husband's trull. Venus heard all 
And Cupid falsely laughing now 
With unbent bow : 

At length she said, this rage forbear ; 
That naughty bull thou shalt have here : 
Prepare thyself 'gainst he returns 
To break his horns. 

Jove is thy bull. These fountains dry ; 
Learn to use greatness moderately. 
Thy thirds o' th' world shall called be 
Europe from thee. 

Sir R. Fanshawb. 

ODE xxvni. 


Festo quid potius die. 

WHAT doe we else on Neptune's feast ? 
Be therefore (Lyde) ready prest 
To broach Csecubian wines, enclos'd ; 
And let strong wisedom be oppos'd. 
Thou seest 'tis mid time of the day, 
And yet, as if swift time did stay, 


A butt, thou spar'st, was cellar stall'd, 

When Bibulus was consul call'd. 

With mutuall songs, we'll Neptune please. 

And the greene-hayr'd, Nereides, 

On crooked lyre, sing thou with art, 

Latona, and swift Cynthia's dart : 

Whilst our last straine, her praise unfolds, 

Who Cnidos, and bright Cyclads holds : 

And Paphos with payr'd swans doth view ; 

Tet (Night !) we'll pay thee verses due. 

Sib Thomas Hawkins. 

ODE xxrx. 

Tyrrhena regwm progenies, iibi. 

M^CENAS, — sprungfromTuscankings, — for thee, 
Milde wine in vessels never toucht, I keepe ; 
Here roses, and sweete odours be, 

Whose dew thy haire shall steepe ; 

O stay not, let moyst Tibur be disdain'd, 

And ^suIsb's declining fields, and hills 

Where once Telegonus remain'd. 

Whose hand his father kills ; 

Forsake that height where lothsome plenty cloyes, 
And towres, which to the lofty clouds aspire ; 
The smoke of Rome, her wealth and noyse 
Thou wilt not here admire. 

In pleasing change the rich man takes delight, 
And frugal meales in homely seates allowes. 
Where hangings want; and purple bright 
He cleares his carefuU browes. 


Now Cepbeus plainelj shewes his hidden fire, 
The Dog-star now his furious heate displayes, 
The Lion spreads his raging ire, 
The sun brings parching dayes. 

The Shepherd now his sickly flock restores. 
With shades, and rivers, and the thickets finds 
Of rough Silvanus ; silent shores 
Are free from playing winds. 

To keepe the State in order is the care, 
SoUicitous for Rome, thou fear'st the warres, 
Whicl^barb'rous Eastern troops prepare, 
And Tnnais us'd to jarres. 

The wise Creator from our knowledge hides 
The end of future times in darksome night ; 
False thoughts of mortals he derides. 
When them vaine toyes afiright. 

With mindfull temper present houres compose. 
The rest are like a river, which with ease. 
Sometimes within his channell flowes, 
Into Etrurian seas. 

Oft stones, trees, flocks and houses it devoures, 
With echoes from the hills, and neighb'ring woods. 
When some fierce deluge, rais'd by showres, 
Turnes quiet brookes to floods. 

He, master of himselfe, in mirth may live. 
Who saith, I rest well pleas'd with former dayes ; 
Let God from heaven to-morrow give 
Blaeke clouds, or sunny rayes. 

No force can make that voide, which once is past, 
Those things are never alter'd or undone. 
Which from the instant rolling fast, 
With flying moments run. 


Proud Portune joyfall sad affaires to finde, 
Insulting in her sport, delights to change 
Uncertaine honours ; quickly kinde 
And straight againe as strange. 
I prayse her stay, but if she stirre her wings, 
Her gifts I leave, and to myself retire, 
Wrapt in my yertue : honest things 
In want no dowre require. 

When Lybian stormes, the mast in pieces shake, 
I never God with pray'rs and vowes implore. 
Lest precious waves addition make* 
To greedy Neptune's store. 

Then I contented, with a little bote. 
Am through ^gean waves, by winds convay'd. 
Where Pollux makes me safely flote, 
And Castor's friendly aide. 

SiE John Beaumont.' 

THE SAME {paraphrasedy 

DESCENDED of an ancient line, 
That long the Tuscan sceptre sway'd. 
Make haste to meet the generous wine. 
Whose piercing is for thee delay'd : 
The rosy wreath is made ; 
And artful hands prepare 
The fragrant Syrian oil, that shall perfume thy hair. 

When the wine sparkles from afar. 

And the well-natur'd friend cries, come away ! 
Make haste, and leave thy business, and thy care, 

No mortal interest can be worth thy stay. 

' Brother to Francis Beaumont, the dramatist. 

= Inscribed to the Eight Honorable Lawrence, Earl of Rochester. 


Leave for awhile, thy costly country seat ! 
And to be great indeed, forget 
The nauseous pleasures of the great. 

Make haste and come ! 
Come and forsake thy cloying store ! 
Thy turret that surveys from high", 

The smoke, and wealth, and noise of Rome, 
And all the busy pageantry, 
That wise men scorn, and fools adore. 
Come give thy soul a loose, and taste the pleasures of 
the poor ! 

Sometimes 'tis grateful for the rich to try 
A short vicissitude, and fit of poverty : 

A savoury dish, a homely treat 

Where all is plain, where all is neat, 
Without the stately spacious room. 
The Persian carpet, or the Tyrian loom, 

Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the great. 

The sun is in the Lion mounted high. 

The Syrian star barks from afar. 
And, with his sultry breath, infects the sky ; 
The ground below is parch'd, the heavens above us fry ; 

The shepherd drives his fainting flock 

Beneath the covert of a rock. 
And seeks refreshing rivulets nigh : 
The sylvan s to their shades retire. 
Those very shades and streams, new shades and streams 

And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging fire. 

Thou, what befits the new Lord Mayor, 

And what the City factions dare. 

And what the Gfallic arms will do, 

And what the quiver-bearing foe, 

Art anxiously inquisitive to know : 


But God has wisely hid, from human sight, 
The dark decrees of future fate, 

And sown their seeds in depths of night. 
He laughs at all the giddy turns of State, 
Where mortals search too soon, and fear too late. 

Enjoy the present smiling hour. 

And put it out of Fortune's power ; 

The tide of business, like the running stream, 

Is sometimes high and sometimes low, 

A quiet ebb, or a tempestuous flow, 
And always in extreme. 

Now with a noiseless gentle course, 

It keeps within the middle bed ; 

Anon it lifts aloft its head, 
And bears down all before it, with impetuous force : 

And trunks of trees come rolling down. 

Sheep and their folds together drown ; 
Both house and homestead into seas are borne. 
And rocks are from their old foundations torn. 
And woods, made thin with winds, their soatter'd 
honours mourn. 

Happy the man, and happy he alone. 

He, who can call to-day his own : 

He who, secure within, can say 

To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day ! 

Be fair or foul, or rain or shine. 
The joys I have possess'd, in spite of fate, are mine. 
Not Heaven itself, upon the past has power. 
And what has been, has been, and I have had my hour. 

Fortune that, with malicious joy. 

Does man, her slave, oppress. 
Proud of her office to destroy. 

Is seldom pleased to bless ; 


Still various, and inconstant still, 
But with an inclination to be ill, 
Promotes, degrades, delights in strife. 
And makes a lottery of life. 

I can enjoy her while she is kind ; 

But when she dances in the wind, 
And shakes her wings, and will not stay, 
I puff the prostitute away : 

The little or the much she gave is quietly resign'd. 
Content with poverty my soul I arm. 
And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm. 

What is't to me, 
Who never sail in her unfaithful sea, 
If storms arise, and clouds grow black ; 
If the mast split, and threaten wreck ? 
Then let the greedy merchant fear 

For his ill-gotten gain, 
And pray to gods, th&,t will not hear, 
While the debating winds- and billows bear 

His wealth unto the main. 
For me, secure from Fortune's blows. 
Secure of what I cannot lose. 
In my small pinnace, I can sail. 

Contemning' all the blustering roar ; 
And, running with a merry gale. 
With friendly stars my safety seek, 
Within some little winding creek. 

And see the storm ashore. 





Eaiegi morvwmenivmh osre peremnms. 

A WORK outlasting brass, and higher 
Than regal pyramid's proud spire, 
I have absolv'd. Which storming windes, 
The sea that turrets undermines ; 
Tract of innumerable daies. 
Nor the rout of time can raze. 
Totally I shall not die. 
And much of me the grave shall flie. 
Posterity my name shall boast. 
When Rome herself in Rome iia lost. 
Where like a king loud Aufid reigns 
Where Daunus (poor in stream) complains 
To neighbouring clowns : I shall be said 
The man, that from an humble head 
T'a torrent swoln did first inspire 
A Roman soul in Grecian lyre. 
I labour with deserved praise ; 
Crown, crown me (willing Muse !) with baies. 

Sib R, Fanshawe, 

ODES. BOOK ir. 117 



Intermissa, Venus, diu. 

VENUS, again thou mov'st a war, 
Long intermitted, pray, pray thee spare ! 
I am not such, as in the reign 

Of the good Cynara I was : refrain 
Sour mother of sweet loves ! forbear 

To bend a man, now at his fiftieth year 
Too stubborn for commands so slack : 

Go where youth's soft entreaties call thee back ! 
More timely, hie thee to the house, 

With thy bright swans, of Paulus Maximus : 
There jest and feast, make him thine host, 

If a fit liver thou dost seek to toast ! 
For he's both noble, lovely, young, 

And for the troubled client, files his tongue : 
Child of a hundred arts, and far 

Will he display the ensigns of thy war. 
And when he, smiling, finds his grace 

With thee 'bove all his rival's gifts, take place, 
He'll thee a marble statue make, 

Beneath a sweet- wood roof, near Alba lake. 
There shall thy dainty nostril take 

In many a gum, and for thy soft ear's sake, 
Shall verse be set to harp and lute. 

And Phrygian hautboy, not without the flute. 


There twice a day, in sacred lays, 

The youths and tender maids shall sing thy praise : 
And, in the Salian manner, meet 

Thrice 'bout thy altar, with their ivory feet. 
Me now, nor wench, nor wanton boy, 

Delights, nor crednlons hope of mutnal joy ; 
Nor care I now healths to propound. 

Or with fresh flowers to girt my temples round. 
But why, oh why, my Ligurine, 

Plow my thin tears down these pale cheeks of mine ? 
Or why my well-graced words among. 

With an uncomely silence, fails my tongue ? 
Hard-hearted, I dream every night, 

I hold thee fast ! but fled hence, with the light. 
Whether in Mars his field thou be. 

Or Tiber's winding streams, I follow thee. 

Ben Jonson. 


TO lULUS ANTONIUS (^pma^hrase). 

Pindatwm quisquis studet cenmlari. 

PINDAR is imitable by none ; 
The phcenix Pindar is a vast species alone, 
Who'ere but Daedalus with waxen wings could fly 
And neither sink too low, nor soar too high ? 

What could he who follow'd claim. 
But of vain boldness the unhappy fame. 
And by his fall a sea to name ? 
Pindar's unnavigable song 
Like a swol'n flood from some steep mountain pours 
The ocean meets with such a voice, 
Prom his enlarged mouth, as drowns the ocean's noise. 


So Pindar does new words and figures roul 
Down his impetuons dithyrambiqne tide, 

Which in no channel deigns t' abide, 

Which neither banks nor dikes contronl. 

Whether th' immortal Gods he sings. 

In a no less immortal strain. 
Or the great acts of God-descended kings. 
Who in his numbers still survive and reign, 

Bach rich embroidered line, 

Which their triumphant brows around. 

By his sacred hand is bound. 
Does all their starry diadems outshine. 

Whether at Pisa's race he please 
To carve in polisht verse the conquerors images. 
Whether the swift, the skilful, or the strong, 
Be crowned in his nimble, artful, vigorous song : 
Whether some brave young man's untimely fate. 
In words worth dying for, he celebrate, 

Such mournful and such pleasing words, 
As joy to his mother's and his mistress' grief affords : 

He bids him live and grow in fame. 

Among the stars he sticks his name. 
The grave can but the dross of him devour, 
So small is death's, so great the poet's power. 

Lo, how th' obsequious wind, and swelling ayr 

The Theban swan does upwards bear 
Into the walks of clouds, where he does play. 
And with extended wings opens his liquid way, 

Whilst, alas, mjr timorous Muse 

Unambitious tracks pursues ; 

Does with weak unballast wings, 

About the mossy brooks and springs ; 

About the trees new blossom'd heads ; 

About the gardens painted beds. 


About the fields and flow'ry meads, 
And all inferior beauteous things, 

Like the laborious bee, 
For little drops of honey flee. 
And there with humble sweets contents her Industrie. 




Quern iu Melpomene semel, 

HE on whose birth the lyric Queen 
Of numbers smil'd, shall never grace 
The Isthmian gauntlet, or be seen 

First in the fam'd Olympic race. 
He shall not, after toils of war, 

And humbling haughty monarchs' pride, 
With laurell'd brows, conspicuous far. 

To Jove's Tarpeian Temple ride. 
But him, the streams that warbling flow, 

Rich Tibur's fertile meads along. 
And shady groves, his haunts, shall know 

The master of th' -Slolian song. 
The sons of Rome, majestic Rome ! 

Have plac'd me in the poets' choir, 
And envy now, or dead or dumb, 

Forbears to blame what they admire. 
Goddess of the sweet-sounding lute 1 

Which thy harmonious touch .obeys ; 
Who can'st the finny race, though mute, 

To cygnets' dying accents raise ; 


Thy gift it is, that all, with ease, 
Me, prince of Roman lyrics, own ; 

That while I live, my numbers please. 
If pleasing be thy gift alone. 

Bishop Atterbdet.' 



Qual&m ministrwm fuhninis ditem. 

AS the wing'd minister of thund'ring Jove, 
To whom he gave his dreadful bolts to bear, 
Faithful assistant of his master's love, 
King of the wand'ring nations of the air, 

When balmy breezes fann'd the vernal sky, 
On doubtful pinions, left his parent nest, 

In slight essays his growing force to try. 

While inborn courage fired his generous breast ; 

Then, darting with impetuous fury down. 

The flocks he slaughter'd, an unpractised foe ; 

Now his ripe valour, to perfection grown. 
The scaly snake and crested dragon know ; 

Or as a lion's youthful progeny, 

Wean'd from his savage dam, and milky food, 
The gazing kid beholds with fearful eye, 

Doom'd first to stain his tender fangs in blood : 

Such Drusus, young in arms, his foes beheld. 
The Alpine Rhaeti, long unmatoh'd in fight : 

So were their hearts, with abject terror quell' d. 
So sunk their haughty spirit at the sight. 

' See note to Ode ix, , Book iii. 


Tamed by a boy, the fierce barbarians find 

How guardian pmdence guides the youthful flame ; 

And how great Csesar's fond paternal mind 
Each generous Nero forms to early fame : 

A valiant son springs from a valiant sire : 

Their race, by mettle, sprightly coursers prove ; 

Nor can the warlike eagle's active fire 
Degenerate, to form the timorous dove. 

But education can the genius raise, 

And wise instructions native virtue aid ; 

Nobility, without them, is disgrace, 

And honour is, by vice, to shame betray'd. 

Let red Metaurus, stain'd with Punic blood, 

Let mighty Asdrubal, subdued, confess 
How much of empire, and of fame is owed 

By thee, Rome, to the Neronian race. 

Of this be witness that auspicious day, 

Which after a long, black, tempestuous night. 

First smiled on Latium, with a milder ray, 

And oheer'd our drooping hearts with dawning light. 

Since the dire African, with wasteful ire. 

Rode o'er the ravaged towns of Italy ; 
As through the pine trees flies the raging fire, 

Or Eurus o'er the vex'd Sicilian sea. 

From this bright era, from this prosperous field. 
The Roman glory dates her rising power ; 

From hence 'twas given, her conquering sword to wield. 
Raise her fallen gods, and ruin'd shrines restore. 

Thus Hannibal at length despairing spoke : 
" Like stags, to ravenous wolves an easy prey, 

Our feeble arms a valiant foe provoke, 
Whom to elude and 'scape were victory : 


A dauntless nation, that from Trojan fires, 
Hostile, Ansonia ! to thy destined shore, 

Her gods, her infant sons, and aged sires, 

Through angry seas, and adverse tempests, bore : 

As on high Algidns the sturdy oak, 

Whose spreading boughs the axe's sharpness feel, 
Improves by loss, and, thriving with the stroke. 

Draws health and vigour from the wounding steel. 

Not Hydra, sprouting from her mangled head, 

So tired the baffled force of Hercules ; 
Nor Thebes, nor Colchis, such a monster bred. 

Pregnant of ills and famed for prodigies. 

Plunge her in ocean, like the morning sun. 
Brighter she rises from the depths below : 

To earth, with unavailing ruin, thrown. 

Recruits her strength, and foils the wond'ring foe. 

No more of victory the joyful fame 

Shall from my camp to haughty Carthage fly ; 

Lost, lost, are all the glories of her name ! 
With Asdrubal her hopes and fortune die ! " 

What shall the Claudian valour not perform 

Which power divine guards with propitious care ; 

Which wisdom steers, through all the dangerous storm. 
Through all the rocks, and shoals of doubtful war. 

LoED Ltttleton.' 

' George, Lord Lyttleton, 1709-1773. 



Tikie, qiiem proles Kiobea magnce, 

OTHOU, who Niobe's proud tongue 
Didst visit on her Taunted young ; 
Whose vengeance lustful Tityus strack, 
And him that Ilium all but took — 
Achilles, sea bom Thetis' son — 
Second in fight to thee alone : 
Though, lord of the tremendous spear, 
He shook the Dardan towers with fear j 
Like pine by biting axe cut down, 
Or cypress by fierce blasts o'erthrown, 
Low in Troy's dust (vast fall !) his head 
Beneath thy conquering arm was laid. 
He would not, caged in Pallas' horse. 
Base counterfeit, with midnight force 
Have burst on unsuspecting Troy, 
And Priam's halls of fatal joy : 
But gaunt and grim in open day 
Seized, crush'd, alas ! his tender prey, 
And doom'd in Grecian flames to die 
The embryo buds of infancy ; 
Had not dread Jove, o'ercome by thee 
And Venus, issued his decree 
That happier, by ^neas plann'd. 
Elsewhere another Troy should stand. 
Thou who did teach Thalia's lyre. 
Bright God; its strains of living fire, 
Who lavest in Xanthus' stream thy hair, 
O make the Daunian muse thy care ! 

ODES. BOOK ir. 125 

The glow, the art, the name of bard 

On me Apollo has conferr'd. 

Ye high-born virgins, fair and young, 

Te boys of noblest lineage sprung 

(Object of Dian's fond delight. 

Whose bow arrests the lynx's flight,) 

Careful the Lesbian measure keep, 

As o'er the chords my fingers sweep : 

And solemn sing Latona's son 

Night's torch ; who gives the plenteous year, 

And wheels the months in prone career. 

Married thou'lt say : " That pious sound," 

When time has rolled the century round, 

" I- chaunted on high festal day, 

And Horace taught the tuneful lay.'' 


ODE vn, 

Diffugere mves ; redevmt jam, grmnina campis. 
All worldly pleotswres fade. 

THE winter with his griesly stormes ne lenger dare 
The plesante grasse, with lusty greene, the earth hath 

newly dide. 
The trees have leaves, ye bowes don spred, new changed 

is ye yere. 
The water brokes are cleane sonke down, the pleasant 

bankes appere. 
The spring is come, the goodly nimphes now daunce in 

every place, 
Thus hath the yere mOst pleasantly of late ychangde 

his face. 


Hope for no immortalitie, for welth will weare away, 
As we may learne by every yere, yea houres of every 

For ZepharuB doth mollifye the colde and blustering 

windes : 
The Somer's drought doth take away ye Spryng out of 

our minds. 
And yet the: Somer cannot last, but once must step 

Then > Autumn thinkes to kepe hys place, but Autumn 

cannot bide. 
For when he hath brought forth his fruits and stnft 

ye. barns with com. 
The Winter eates and empties all, and thus is Autumn 

worne : 
Then hory frostes possesse the place, then tempestes 

work much harm. 
Then rage of stormes done make al colde which Somer 

made so warm. 
Wherfore let no man put his trust in that, that will 

For slipper welth will not continue, plesure will weare 

For when that we have lost our lyfe, and lye under a 

What are we then, we are but earth, then is our pleasure 

No man can tell what God Almight of every wight 

doth cast, 
No man can say to-day I live, till morne my lyfe shall 

For when thou shalt before the judge stand to receive 

thy dome, 
What sentence Minos doth pronounce, that must of thee 


ODES. BOOK ir. 127 

Then shall not noble stock and bind redeme thee from 

his handes, 
Nor surged talke with eloquence shall loose thee from 

his bandes. 
Nor yet thy life uprightly led, can help thee out of hell, 
For who descendeth downe so depe, must there abyde 

and dwell. 
Diana could not thence deliver chaste Hypolitus, 
Nor Theseus could not call to life his frende Perithous. 

From TMeVs Miscellany, "Uncertain Authors." 


THE snow, dissolved, no more is seen. 
The fields and woods, behold, are green ; 
The changing year renews the plain ; 
The rivers know their banks again ; 
The sprightly nymph and naked grace 
The mazy dance together trace ; 
The changing year's successive plan 
Proclaims mortality to man ; 
Rough Winter's, blasts to Spring give way : 
Spring yields to Summer's sovereign ray ; 
Then Summer sinks in Autumn's reign ; 
And Winter chills the world again. 
Her losses soon the Moon supplies ; 
But wretched man when once he lies 
Where Priam and his sons are laid, 
Is nought but ashes and a shade. 
Who knows if Jove who counts our score 
Will rouse us in a morning more ? 
What with your friend you nobly share 
At least you rescue from your heir. 


Not you, Torqnatus, boast of Borne, 
When Minos once has fixed your doom, 
Or eloquence, or splendid birth. 
Or virtue, shall replace on earth. 
Hippolytus, unjustly slain, 
Diana calls to life in vain ; 
Nor can the might of Theseus rend 
The chains of hell that hold his friend. 

De. Johnson. 

ODE vni.» 

I)ona/rem pateras grataque commod/us, 

MY friends I would accommodate 
With goblets, Grecian tripods, plate 
Of Oorinth brass ; and Censorine, 
The worst of these should not be thine ; 
That is to say, if I were rich 
In those same antique pieces which 
Parrhasius and Scopas fame ; 
He skill'd to paint, in stone to frame 
This, now a God, a mortal now. 
But I have not the means ; nor thou 
A mind, or purse, that wants such knacks. 
Verse thou dost love. Thou shalt not lack 
For verse. And hear me what 'tis worth. 
Not in 'scrib'd marbles planted forth 
To publick view, which give new breath 
To great and good men after death ; 

> Akenside pursues the argument of this ode in his " Ode on the 
Use of Poetry." 


Not the swift flight of Hannibal, 

And his threats turn'd to his own wall ; 

Not perjur'd Carthage wrapt in flame, 

By which young Scipio brought a name 

From conquer'd ASriok ; speak his praise 

So loud, as the Pierian layes. 

Nor, were books sileno't couldst thou gain 

The guerdon of thy vertuous pain. 

What had become of Ilia's child 

She bare to Mars, had darkness veil'd 

The merits of our Romulus ? 

From Stygian waters ^acns, 

Vertue and fav'ring verse assoiles. 

And consecrates to the blest isles. 

A man that hath desery'd t' have praise, 

The Muse embalms. She keeps Heav'ns keyes. 

Thus Hercules (his labours past) 

With Jupiter takes wisht repast : 

The sons of Leda stars are made, 

And give the sinking sea-man aid ; 

Good Bacchus, crowned with vine leaves. 

His drooping votaries relieves. 

Sir R. Fanshawe. 


TO LOLLIUS {paraphrased). 

Ne forte credos interitura, quae. 

VERSES immortal (as my bays) I sing, 
When suited to my trembling string : 
When by strange art both voice and lyre agree 
To make one pleasant harmony. 


All poets are by their blind captain led, 

(For none e'er had the sacrilegioas pride 
To tear the well-placed laurel from his aged head.) 

Yet Pindar's rolling dithyrambic tide 
Hath still this praise, that none presume to fly 
Like him, but flag too low, or soar too high. 

Still does Stesichorus his tongue 
Sing sweeter than the bird which on it hung. 
Anacreon ne'er too old can grow, 
Love from every verse does flow : 
Still Sappho's strings do seem to move. 
Instructing all her sex to love. 

Golden rings of flowing hair 
More than Helen did ensnare ; 
Others a prince's grandeur did admire, 
And wond'ring melted to desire. 
Not only skilful Teucer knew 
To direct arrows from the bending yew. 
Troy more than once did fall, 

Though hireling Gods rebuilt its nodding wall. 

Was StheneluB the only valiant he, 

A subject fit for lasting poetry ? 

Was Hector that prodigious man alone. 

Who, to save others lives, expos'd his own ? 

Was only he so brave to dare his fate. 

And be the pillar of a tott'ring state ? 
No, others buried in oblivion lie. 
As silent as their grave, 

Because no charitable poet gave 

The well-deserved immortality. 

Virtue with sloth, and cowards with the brave, 
Are levell'd in the impartial grave. 
If they no poefc have. 
But I will lay raj music by 
And bid the mournful strings in silence lie : 


Unless my songs begin and end witli yon, 

To whom my strings, to whom my songs are due. 

No pride does with your rising hononrs grow, 

Yon meekly look on suppliant crowds below. 

Should Fortune change your happy state, 

Tou could admire, yet envy not, the great. 

Tour equal hand holds an unbiass'd scale. 

Where no rich vices, gilded baits, prevail. 

Tou with a generous honesty despise 

What all the meaner world so dearly prize, 

Nor does your virtue disappear 

With the small circle of one short-lived year. 

Others, like comets, visit and away ; 

Tour lustre, great as theirs, finds no decay, 

But with the constant sun makes an eternal day. 

We barbarously call those bless'd 
Who are of largest tenements possess'd. 
Whilst swelling ooifers break their owners rest. 

More truly happy those, who can 

Govern the little empire, man : 
Bridle their passions and direct their will 
Through all the glitt'ring paths of charming ill ; 
Who spend their treasure freely, as 'twas given 
By the large bounty of indulgent Heaven ; 
Who in a fix'd unalterable state. 

Smile at the doubtful tide of Fate, 
And scorn alike her friendship and her hate. 

Who poison less than falsehood fear. 

Loth to purchase life so dear ; 
But kindly for their friend embrace cold death, 
And seal their country's love with their departing breath. 

Geoege 'Stepney.^ 

' " In has original poems now and then a happv.lme may perhaps 
be found, and now and then a short composition ^fy^^m pleasure." 
— Dr. Johnson, V 



WHILE with tlie Grecian bard I vie. 
And raptured tune the social string, 
Think not the song shall ever die, 
Which, with no ■vulgar art, I sing. 
Though born where Anfid rolls his sounding stream 
In lands far distant from poetic fame. 

What though the Muse her Homer thrones 

High above all th' immortal choir, 
Nor Pindar's rapture she disowns, 
Nor hides the plaintive Ceean lyre ? 
Alcseus strikes the tyrant's soul with dread, 
Nor yet is grave Stesichorus unread. 

Whatever old Anacreon sung, 

(However tender was his lay) 
In spite of time is ever young. 

Nor Sappho's amorous flames decay ; 
Her living songs preserve their charming art. 
Her love still breathes the passions of her heart. 

Helen was not the only fair 

By an unhappy passion fired, 
Who, the lewd ringlets of the hair 
Of an adulterous beau admired ; 
Court arts, gold lace, and equipage have charms 
To tempt weak woman to a stranger's arms. 

Nor, first, from Teucer's vengeful bow 

The feather'd death unerring flew, 
Nor was the Greek the single foe 
Whose rage ill-fated Ilion knew : 
Greece had with heroes fiU'd th' embattled plain 
Worthy the Muse in her sublimest strain. 

ODES. BOOK ir. 133 

Nor Hector first transported heard, 

With fierce delight, the war's alarms, 
Nor brave Deiphobus appeared 
Amid the tented field in arms, 
With glorions ardour prodigal of life, 
To guard a darling son, and faithful wife. 

Before great Agamemnon reign'd, 

Reign'd kings as great as he, and brave, 
Whose huge ambition's now oontain'd 
In the small compass of a grave ; 
In endless night they sleep, unwept, unknown, 
No bard had they to make all time their own.^ 

In earth, if it forgotten lies. 

What is the valour of the brave ? 
What difference, when the coward dic". 
And sinks in silence to his grave ? 
Nor, LoUius, will I not thy praise proclaim, 
But from oblivion vindicate thy fame. 

Nor shall its livid power conceal 

Thy toils — ^how glorious to the state ! 
How constant to the public weal 

Through all the doubtful turns of fate ! 
Thy steady soul, by long experience found 
Erect, alike when fortune smiled, or frown'd. 

Villains, in public rapine bold, 

Lollius, the just avenger, dread. 
Who never by the charms of gold. 

Shining seducer ! was misled ; 

' " Many by valour have deserved renown 
Ere Agamemnon, yet lie all oppressed 
Under long night, unwept for and unknown : 
For with no sacred poet were they blest." 

SiE Walter Baleigh. 


Beyond thy year such virtue shall extend, 
And death alone thy consulate shall end. 

Perpetual magistrate is he 

Who keeps strict justice full in sight : 
With scorn rejects th' offender's fee, 
Nor weighs convenience against right ; 
Who bids the crowd at awful distance gaze. 
And virtue's arms victoriously displays. 

Not he, of wealth immense possess'd. 

Tasteless, who piles his massy gold, 
Among the number of the bless'd 

Should have his glorious name enroU'd : 
He better claims the glorious name who knows. 
With wisdom, to enjoy what Heaven bestows : 

Who knows the wrongs of want to bear, 

Even in its lowest, last extreme ; 
Tet can with conscious virtue fear 

Far worse than death, a deed of shame : 
Undaunted, for his country or his friend 
To sacrifice his life — Oh glorious end ! 

Db. Feancis. 


crvideKs adhuc, et Veneris rmmerilms potens. 

CRUEL and fair ! when this soft down 
(Thy youth's bloom) shall to bristles grow ; 
And these fair curls thy shoulders crown, 
Shall shed or oover'd be with snow ; 

ODES. BOOK ir. 135 

When those bright roses that adorn 

Thy cheeks shall wither quite away, 
And in the glass (now made time's scorn) 

Thou shalt thy changed face survey : 

Then, ah, then ! (sighing) thou'lt deplore 
Thy ill-spent youth ; and wish, in vain, 

Why had I not those thoughts before ? 
Or come not my first looks again. 

SiE E. Shbebubne.i 


"T~^IS true (proud boy !) thy beauty may presume, 
±_ Thank Venus for 't, but when thy cheekes shall 
When manly downe shall shade thy childish pride. 
And when thy locks (which dangle on each side 
Of thy white shoulders) shall no more remain ; 
When thy vermilion cheeks (which do disdain 
The glorious colour of the purple rose) 
Begin to fade, and Ligurinus lose 
His lovely face, being rudely stuck with haires, 
(Hard-hearted boy !) then wilt thou say with teares, 
(When, looking for thy fair self in a glass, 
Thou find'st another there) Ah me ! alas ! 
What do I now perceive ? Why had not I 
These thoughts when I was lovely smooth ? or why 
To these my thoughts which I now entertaine 
Doe not my cheeks grow slik and young again ? 

SiE John Mbnnis. 

From "Mwscinww Belicice: Wit restored," 1658. 

' Translator of the " Medea (1648) and Troades ( 1679) of Seneca," 
and author of many pther original poems and translations. 




'Est mihi nmm/m su^ercmUs anmmi. 

SWEET PMHs, leave thy quiet home, 
For lo ! the ides of April come ! 
Then hasten to my bower ; 
A cask of rich Albanian wine, 
In nine years' mellowness is mine, 
To glad the festal hour. 

My garden herbs, in fragrance warm. 
Oar various chaplefcs wait to form ; 

My tender ivies grow, 
That, twining in thy amber hair, 
Add jocund spirit to thine air. 

And whiteness to thy brow. 

My walls with silver vessels shine ; 
Chaste vervain decks the modest shrine, 

That longs with crimson stains 
To see its foliage sprinkled o'er. 
When the devoted lamb shall pour 

The treasure of his veins. 

The household girls, and menial boy. 
From room to room assiduous fly. 

And busy hands extend ; 
Our numerous fires are quivering bright 
And, rolling from their pointed height. 

The dusky wreaths ascend. 

Convivial rites, in mystic state, 
Thou, lovely nymph, shall celebrate, 
And give~the day to mirth 


That this loTe-chosen month divides ; 
Since honor'd rose its blooming ides 
By dear Maecenas' birth. 

Oh ! not to me, my natal star 

So sacred seems ; — the Nymph prepare, 

To grace its smiling dawn ! 
A wealthier maid, in pleasing chains 
Illustrious Telephus detains. 

From humble thee withdrawn. 

When pride would daring hopes create, 
Of Phaeton recall the fate, 

Consum'd in his career ! 
Let rash Bellerophon, who tried 
The fiery Pegasus to guide. 

Awake thy prudent fear ! 

Thus warn'd, the better interest know, 
Aiid cease those charming eyes to throw 

On youths of high degree ! 
Come then, of all my loves the last, 
Por, every other passion past, 

I only burn for thee ! 

Come, and with tuneful voice rehearse 
The measures of thy poet's verse 

And charm the list'ning throng ! 
Believe me, fairest, all our cares 
Will soften at the melting airs 

That deck the lyric song. 

Anna Seward.^ 

' Poetess, died 1 809. Her works were published with a biogra- 
phical sketch by Sir Walter Scottin 1810. 




Jam veris oomites, qum maire temperant. 

COMPANIONS of the Spring, that lull the sea, 
Now the soft airs of Thrace the sails impel : 
Now nor meads are frozen, nor rivers swell, 
Loud with the snows of winter, down the lea. 

Her nest she puts, that Itys weeping cries, 
The hapless bird, of the Cecropian name 
The sad reproach for ever, that ill she came 

T' avenge barbarian king's impieties. 

Laid on the tender grass, at listless ease. 

The shepherds of fat flocks their music rear. 
And charm the God to whom the herd is dear. 

Whom the dark hills of his Arcadia please. 

The season hath brought thirst : but if you think 
To quaflT the generous wine at Gales press'd, 
O Virgil, by the noble youth caress'd. 

Then purchase with sweet nard the pleasing drink. 

Of nard a little onyx shall prepare, 

A cask, which in Sulpician barns is laid. 
Rich to produce new hope, and full of aid 

To wash away the bitterness of care. 

These joys if you delight in, quickly come 

With merchandize of price : I have no thought 
To steep you in my laughing cups for nought. 

As the rich man in his abundant home. 


But loving dreams of wealth, that poor deceit ; 
Mindful of the dark fires, whilst yet yon may, 
Mix a short folly with your studious day : 

To trifle as the fool in place is sweet. 

Lord Thuelow.' 


AvMvere, Lyae, Bi mea vota, Bi. 

MY prayers are heard, Lyce, now 
They're heard ; years write thee aged, yet thou. 
Youthful and green in will, 
Pntt'st in for handsome still, 
And shameless dost intrude among 
The sports and feastings of the young. 

There, thaw'd with wine, thy ragged throat 
To Cupid shakes some feeble note, 

To move unwilling fires. 

And rouse our lodged desires, 
When he still wakes in Chia's face, 
Chia, that's fresh, and sings with grace. 

For he, (choice god) doth in his flight 
Skip sapless oaks, and will not light 

Upon thy cheek or brow, 

Because deep wrinkles now, 
Gray hairs, and teeth decay'd and worn. 
Present thee foul, and fit for scorn. 

' The Lord Chancellor was author of numerous poems, see article 
by Thomas Moore in vol. xxxi. of the " Edinburgh Review." 


Neither thy Ooan purple's lay, 

Nor that thy jewel's native day 

Can make thee backwards live, 
And those lost years retrieve. 

Which winged time unto our known 

And public annals once hath thrown. 

Whither is now that softness flown ? 
Whither that blush, that motion gone ? 

Alas, what now in thee 

Is left of that she — 
That she that loves did breathe and deal ? 
That Horace from himself did steal ?- 

Thou wert awhile the cried-up face 
Of taking arts, and catching grace, 

My Cynara being dead ; 

But my fair Cynara' s thread 
Fates broke, intending thine to draw 
Till thou contest with the aged daw ; 

That those young lovers once thy prey. 

Thy zealous eager servants, may 

Make thee their common sport. 
And to thy house resort 

To see a torch that proudly burn'd 

Now unto colder ashes turn'd. 

W. Caetweight.' 

' Poet and dramatist, died 1643. "My son Cartwright," said 
Ben Jonson, " writes like a man." 

ODES. BOOK ir. 141 



Phoebus volentem prodia me hqwi. 

MY Muse by Phebus was rebuk'd of late, 
For singing warres, and vanqnish'd cities' fate : 
Like those, who in the Tyrrhen ocean's rage, 
Doe little sayles advance. (C^sar !) thy age 
AfFoordeth plenteous fruits unto the fields. 
And to Jove's Capitol! our ensignes yeelds. 
From Parthian pillars snatch'd, and after jarres. 
Hath closed Janus' temple free from warres ; 
Confusion hath with order rectified. 
And wand'ring libertie in fetters ty'd ; 
Hath antique arts recall'd : by wbich 'tis knowne 
Hesperia's strength sind Latine name hath growne. 
Im^periall pomp hath spred, and glory wonne, 
Stretcht from the rising to the setting sunne. 
While Cffisar is our guardian, civil warre, 
Nor violence our peacefull rest shall marre. 
Not anger, which swords sharpeneth, and confounds 
Cities, unhappy made with mutuall wounds. 
Not they for thirst, that drinke in Ister deepe, 
Shall once refuse the Julian lawes to keepe. 
Not Seres, faithlesse Persians, nor the Getes, 
Nor those which near to Tanais have their seats. 
And we on holy eves and holy dayes. 
Amongst free cups to merry Bacchus prayse : 
With wife and children, standing in our sight, 
(First Gods invoking with religious rite) 


Will gladly (as onr grandsires did) reliearse, 
(And tuning Lydian pipe to various verse,) 
Heroique captaines, Troy, Anchises gone, 
And brave ^neas, Oytherea's son. 

SiE Thomas Hawkins. 




Beaiits iUe qui procul negotiis. 

HOW tiappy in his low degree, 
How rich, in humble poverty, is he, 
Who leads a quiet country life ; 
Discharg'd o£. business, void of strife. 

And from the griping scrivener free ! 
Thus, ere the seeds of vice were sown, 

Liv'd men in better ages born 
Who plongh'd, with oxen of their own. 

Their small paternal field of corn. 
Nor trumpets summon him to war, 

Nor drums disturb his morning sleep, 
Nor knows he merchant's gainful care, 

Nor fears the dangers of the deep. 
The clamours of contentious law. 

And court and state he wisely shuns, 
Nor brib'd with hopes, nor dar'd with awe, 

To servile salutations runs ; 
But either to the clasping vine 

Does the supporting poplar wed, 
Or with his pruning hook disjoin 

Unbearing branches from their head, 

And grafts more happy in their stead ; 
Or climbing to a hilly steep. 

He views his buds in vales afar, 
Or shears his overburden'd sheep, 


Or mead for cooling driuk prepares 

Of virgin honey in the jars, 
Or, in the now declining year, 

When beauteous Autumn rears his head, 
He joys to pull the ripen'd pear, 

And clust'ring grapes with purple spread. 
Sometimes beneath an aged oak, 

Or on the matted grass he lies : 
No God of Sleep he need invoke ; 

The stream that o'er the pebbles flies 

With gentle slum.ber crowns his eyes. 
The wind, that whistles through the sprays, 

Maintains the concert of the song ; 
And hidden birds with native lays, 

The golden sleep prolong. 
But when the blast of winter blows, 

And hoary frost invests the year. 
Into the naked woods he goes. 

And seeks the tusky boar to rear, 

With well-mouth' d hounds and pointed spear. 
Or spreads his subtle nets from sight, 

With twinkling glasses, to betray 
The larks that in the meshes light, 

Or makes the fearful bear his prey. 
Amidst his harmless, easy joys, 

No anxious care invades his health. 
Nor love his peace of mind destroys. 

Nor wicked avarice 6f wealth. 
But, if a chaste and pleasing wife. 
To ease the business of his life. 
Divides with him her household care. 
Such as the Sabine matrons were. 
Such as the swift Apnlian's bride. 

Sunburnt and swarthy though she be 
Will fire for winter nights provide, 


And — without noise — will oversee 

His children and his family ; 
And order all thiags till he come, 
Sweaty and overlabour'd home ; 
If she in pens his flock will fold, 

And then produce her dairy store 
With wine to drive away the cold. 

And unbought dainties for the poor ; 
Not oysters of the Lucrine lake 

My sober appetite would wish. 

If or turbot, or the foreign fish 
That rolling tempests overtake, 

And hither waft the costly dish. 
Not heathponlt, or the rarer bird, 

Which Phasis or Ionia yields 
More pleasing morsels would afibrd 

Than the fat olives of my fields ; 
Than shards or mallows for the pot, 

That keep the loosened body sound, 
Or than the lamb, that falls by lot 

To the just guardian of my ground. 
Amidst these feasts of happy swains, 

The jolly shepherd smiles to see 
His flock returning from the plains ; 

The farmer is as pleas'd as he. 
To view his oxen sweating smoke. 
Bear on their necks the Ibosen'd yoke : 

To look upon his menial crew. 
That sit around his cheerful hearth. 

And bodies spent in toil renew 
With wholesome food and country mirth. 
This Alphius said within himself ; 

Eesolv'd to leave the wicked town. 

And live retir'd upon his own. 
He call'd his money in ; 


But the preTailing love of pelf 
Soon split him on the former shelf -^ 
He put it out again. 



Parentis olim si qwis i/nvpia marm. 

WHOEVER the wretch, whose impions deed 
Has robb'd his aged sire of breath, 
May garlick, (curst destructive weed !) 
More fell than hemlock, be his death. 

Ah, whence these tortures that arise ? 

Has then some viper's pois'nous blood, 
Mist with these herbs, deceiv'd mine eyes ? 

Or fell Canidia touch'd my food ? 

Soon as, by Jason's beauty charm'd, 

Medea felt love's gentle flame, 
With this obnoxious drug she arm'd 

Her chief, the fiery bulls to tame ; 

By presents stain' d, with this she pour'd 

Swift vengeance on the rival fair, 
Then, borne by winged dragons, soar'd 

Triumphant through the realms of air. 

No vapour e'er so deadly dwelt 
On parch'd Apulia's sandy plains : 

Not even the gift Alcides felt 

Rag'd o'er his limbs with fiercer pains. 


Shouldst thou such nauseous food desire, 
My pleasant friend ! I ask but this, 

May thy lov'd girl afar retire, 

Shun thy embrace, and loathe thy kiss. 


EPODE vir. 


Quo, guo saelesti rwitis ? cmi cur dexteris. 

WHERE do ye rush, ye impious trains ? 
Why gleams afar the late-sheath'd sword ? 
Is it believ'd that Koman veins 

Their crimson tides have sparely poured ? 
Is not our scorn of safety, health, and ease, 
Shewn by devasted climes, and blood-stain'd seas ? 

Those scowling brows, those lifted spears. 
Bend they against the threat'ning towers 

Proud Carthage emulously rears ? 

Or Britain's still unconquer'd shores ? 

That her fierce sons, yet free from hostile sway, 

May pass in chains along our Sacred Way ? 

No ! — but that warring Parthia's curse 
May quickly blast these far-famed walls ; 

Accomplish'd when, with direful force. 
By her own strength, the city falls ; 

When foes no more her might resistless feel, 

But Roman bosoms bleed by Roman steel. 

O ! worse than wolves, or lions fierce, 
Who ne'er, like you, assault their kind ! 

By what wild frenzy would ye pierce 
Each other's breast, in fury blind ? — 


Silent, and pale ye stand, with conscious sighs. 
Tour struck soul louring in your down- cast eyes ! 

The blood our rising walls that stain'd, 

Shed by the ruthless fratricide, 
High Heaven's avenging power ordain'd 

Should spread the rage of discord wide, 
Bid kindred blood in dread profusion flow 
Thro' darken'd years of expiatory woe. 

Anna Sewaed. 


TO HIS FRIENDS (paraphrased). 
Sorrida tempestas ocelv/m contraxit, et imbres. 

BIG with black clouds, the welkin pours 
A tempest all around ; 
Aloft loud blust'ring Boreas roars. 
Rough rolling waves rush on the shores, 
Reluctant groves resound. 

Let us, my friends, th' occasion seize 
Surrounding storms bestow ; 

Whilst vig'rous nerves brace up our knees, 

And it becomes us to release 

From wrinkling cares the brow. 

Choice wines produce, with locks and bars, 
Now kept the ninth October ; 

Leave fruitless fears about the wars. 

Dull politics and state affairs 
To wretches that are sober. 


Witli rich perfumes our locks imba'd, 

Our instruments high strung ; 
Perplexing cares that would intrude, 
Let wine's, let music's charms exclude. 

'Twas thus sage Ohiron sung : 

Brave mortal ! Thetis' matchless son, 
(Grand theme for future story,) 

Tou to the Trojan plains must on. 

Where Simois and Scamander run. 
There purchase endless glory. 

Yet thence the cruel fates ordain, 

(And firm in their decree) 
Tou never must recross the main, 
Triumphant with your warlike train, 

No more your country see. 

But there, whate'er befall, rely 

On this unchanging truth, 
" From wine and music sorrows fly." 
To wine and music then apply. 

And snatch the joys of youth. 

" Gentlemmi's Magazine," Oct,, 1754. 


MoUis inertia cw tomtam (Mffuderit imis. 

HOW such a fit of lethargy 
My senses have possesst, 
As if a dose of opium 
Had bury'd me in rest J 


With often asking wliat's the cause, 

Tou weary me yonr friend ; 
The satyres which I promis'd you, 

I cannot bring to end. 

So poor Anacreon, as they say, 

Bewitch'd by powerful lore, 
Complain'd him often of his wound. 

In melancholy grore. 

The mistress that you court, my friend, 

'Tis fit you should adore ; 
I, like a fool, am Phrygia's slave, 

Yet know she is a Jd2uii.£- 

ToM Bbown.^ 



Nox erat, ei coelo fulgebat hma sereno. 

TWAS in the silent hour of night, 
The moon dififus'd a silver light. 
The planets glitt'ring in the skies 
Were conscious of our mutual joys ; 
When soft you swore, O faithless you ! 
" I wiU be ever, ever true." 
Closer round oaks than ivies twine. 
Were lock'd thy circling arms in mine : 
While storms annoy the tender sheep, 
While winter blasts the ocean sweep. 
While winds the dancing sunbeams move. 
So loiig you swore should be your love. 

' Tom Brown, " of facetious memory," died 1704. 


Perjnr'd Neffira, false as hell ! 

Tet fair, and ah ! belov'd too well ! 

Can I endure thyheav'nly charms 

Should bless a rival's happier arms ? 

No, sure my spirit is too great 

Tamely to bear thy base deceit ; 

Let me then seek a nymph more true. 

More worthy of my flame than you, 

Nor think thy charms my breast shall move, 

Inflam'd with hate, as once with love. 

Thou, happy man ! whoe'er thou art. 

The fancy 'd master of her heart. 

Who can so great a conquest boast, 

Exulting in the spoils I've lost ; 

Tho' thou art rich as heart's desire, 

Tho' sage Minerva thee inspire. 

In thee tho' all perfections join, 

A matchless form, a soul divine ; 

Tet shalt thou mourn to find, that she 

As faithless proves as once to me ; 

Then will I, laughing in my turn, 

Give hate for hate, and scorn for scorn. 

" GenUeman's Magcmne," Oct., 1753. 


V I ""WAS night — the moon upon her sapphire throne, 

J. High o'er the waning stars serenely shone. 
When thou, false nymph, determin'd to profane 
Them, and each power that rules the earth, and main. 
As thy soft snowy arms about me twin'd. 
Close as robnd oaks the clasping ivies wind, 
Swore, while the gaunt wolf shall infest the lea, 
And red Orion vex the wintry sea, 


While gales shall fan Apollo's floating lock's, 

That shed theii? golden light o'er hills and rocks, 

So long thy breast should burn with purest fires. 

With mutual hopes, and with unehang'd desires, 

Perjur'd Nesera ! thou shalt one day prove 

The worth, the vengeance of my slighted love ; 

For O ! if manhood steels, if honour warms, 

Horace shall fly, shall scorn thy faithless charms ; 

Seek some bright maid, whose soul for him shall glow, 

Nor art, nor pride, nor wandering wishes know. 

Then shouldst thou languish, sigh, and weep once more, 

And with new vows his injur'd heart implore, 

Nor sighs, nor vows, nor tears shall he regard, 

Cold as the snow and as the marble hard. 

And thou, triumphant youth, so gay, so vain, 

Prond of my fate, exulting in my pain, 

Tho' on thy hUls the plenteous herd should feed, 

And rich Pactolus roll along thy mead ; 

For thee tho' science ope the varied store, 

And beauty on thy form its graces pour. 

Ere long shalt thou, while wrongs like these degrade, 

Droop with my woes, and with my rage upbraid; 

See on a rival's brow thy garlands worn, 

And, with her falsehood, bear my jocund scorn. 

Anna Sewaed. 





HE forward youth that -would appeare 
Must now forsake his Muses deare, 
Nor in the shadows sing 
His numbers languishing : 

'Tis time to leave the hooks in dust 
And oyle th' unused armours rust ; 

Removing from the wall 

The corselett of the hall. 

So restlesse Cromwell could not cease 
In the inglorious arts of peace, 

But through adventurous warre 

Urged his active starre ; 

And, like the three-forked lightning first 
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, 

Did thorough his own side 

His fiery way divide. 

(For 'tis all one to courage high 
The emulous, or enemy : 

And with such, to enclose 

Is more than to oppose :) 


Then burning tlirotigli the aire he went 
And palaces and temples rent ; 
And Caesar's head at last 
Did through his laurels blast. 

'Tis madness to resist or blame 
The face of angry heaven's flame ; 
And if we would speak true 
Much to the man is due, 

Wio, from his private gardens, where 
He lived reserved and austere 
. (As if his highest plott 
To plant the bergamott :) 

Could by industrious valour clime 
To ruin the great work of time. 

And cast the kingdoms old 

Into another mold ; 

Though Justice against Fate complaine, 

And plead the antient rights in vaine. 

But those do hold or breake, 

As men are strong or weake ; 

Nature, that hateth emptinesse, 

Allows of penetration lesse 

And therefore must make roome 
Where greater spirits come. 

What field of all the Civil Warre 
Where his were not the deepest scarre ? 

And Hampton shows what part 

He had of wiser art, 

Where, twining subtile fears with hope, 
He wove a net of such a scope 

That Charles himself might chase 
To Oaresbrook's narrow case 


That thence the royal actor borne 
The tragic scaffold might adorne ; 

while round the armed bands 

Did clap their bludy hands. 

He nothing common did or mean, 
Upon- that memorable scene, 

But with his keener eye 

The axe's edge did trye ; 

Nor called the gods, with vulgar spight, 
To vindicate his helplesse right ; 

But bowed his comely head 

Downe, as upon a bed. 

This was that memorable houre 
Which first assured the forced power ; 

So when they did designe 

The Capitol's first line, 

A bleeding head, where they begun 
Did fright the architects to run ; 

And yet in that the State 

Foresaw its happy fate ! 

And now the Irish are asham'd 

To see theniselves in one year tam'd ; 

So much one man can doe 

That does both act and know. 

They can affirm his praises best 
And have, though overcome, confest 

How good he is, how just 

And fit for highest trust. 

Nor yet grown stiffer with command, 
But still in the Republiok's hand — 

How fit. he is to sway 

That can so well obey ! 


He to the Commons' feet presents 
A kingdom for his first year's rents, 
And (what he may) forbears 
His fame to make it theirs ; 

And has his sword and spoyls nngirt 
To lay them at the publick's skirt : 
So when the falcon high 
Falls heavy from the sky, 

She, having killed, no more doth search 
But on the next green bongh to perch, 
Where, when he first does lure 
The faulkner has her sure. 

— What may not then our Isle presume. 
While Victory his crest does plume ? 
What may not others feare, 
If ..thus he crowns each yeare ? 

As OsBsar, he, ere long, to Gaul, 
To Italy, an Hannibal, 

And to all States not free 

Shall clymacteriek be. 

The Piot no shelter now shall find 
Within his party-colour' d mind, 
But, from his valour, sad. 
Shrink underneath the plad — 

Happy, if in the tufted brake. 
The English hunter him mistake 

Nor lay his hounds in neere 

The Caledonian deer. 

But thou, the Warr's and Fortune's sonne, 

March indefatigably on ; 
And for the last effect, 
Still keep the sword erect : 


Besides the force it has to fright 
The spirits .of the shady night. 

The same arts that did gain 

A pow'r mnst it maintain. 

Andeew Marvel.' 


MILLER, whom fair lerne bore 
To grace Britannia's happier shore, 
Whose genins guides, whose counsel guards 
The labours of Bathonian bards," 
Survey mankind, and each you'll view 
His various path of joy pursue. 
There are in phaetons who smoke ye. 
Collecting dust enough to choke ye, 
With elbows square and nodding heads, 
And long- tail' d scrambling quadrupeds. 
Whip round the post — turn sharp — out neat — 
Despise — and frighten all they meet : 
Or studious of the Oljrmpio races. 
Keep half a running horse at Scraoe's,* 

' " The Horatian ode is one of the least known, but among the 
greatest that the English language possesses. In its whole treat- 
ment it reminds us of the highest to which the greatest Latin artist 
in lyrical poetry did, when at his best, attain. To one unacquainted 
with Horace, this ode, not perhaps so perfect as his are in form, and 
with occasional obscurities of expression which Horace would not 
have left, will giro a truer notion of the kind of greatness which he 
achieved than, so far as I know, could from any other poem in the 
language be obtained." — Akohbishop Tkench. 

' Mrs. Miller had established a poetical coterie at her villa at 

3 The Bath riding-school. 


Hedging, and odds, and bets their theme. — 

By which some knowing ones, I deem, 

With zones about their necks have vaulted 

Tow'rds heaven, above their peers exalted. 

The alderman, who pants to grace 

The golden chain, the sword, and mace ; 

The griping hnnks, whose barns contain 

Full many a year's well-hoarded grain. 

Tet anxious to increase his store. 

Grubs his paternal fields for more, 

Would ne'er the boist'rous waves be tost on, 

In search of dear bought palms at Boston, 

Though all the treasures were consign'd them. 

Her hapless exiles leave behind them, 

In stoutest bark would ne'er sustain 

The horrors of th' Atlantic main. 

Secure from wars, and dangerous seas, 
Colonel Jaghire enjoys his ease, 
Buys lands, and beeves with Indian gold. 
Which some' poor English squire has sold ; 
King, Lords, and Commons he defies, 
" The town is all my own," he cries, 
" That cursed climate I've been hurt in 
" And nabob-making grows uncertain — 
" This snug retreat I'm safe from harm in, — 
" How sweet that wood ! that lawn how charming ! " 
But ah ! his passion soon returns, 
With restless flames his bosom burns ; 
His bark he rigs, resolv'd once more 
The distant Ganges to explore, 
Rather than on his native ground 
To starve — on fourscore thousand pound. 

Oft will you meet old General Drone : 
A character at Bath well known ; 
The Rooms and Cofliee-house he haunts. 


Drinks sometimes tea, and sometimes Nantz : 
Complaining of tlie gripes and vapours, 
He'll ask " wliat news there's in the papers ; " 
Then cry, " such measures we're pursuing 
This nation's on the brink of ruin ; " — 
But urge.him to explain her wrongs, — 
Down fall the poker and the tengs ; 
He hums, and haws, and recommends — a — 
— Prescription for the — influenza ; — 
In Summer, lounging at Spring Garden, 
In Winter, every door bombarding. 
With morning visits duly paid 
Down from the Orescent to Parade, 
His head he'll in the Pump Room poke 
To catch some stale unmeaning joke, 
With news and nonsense for the day, 
To drive his irksome hours away. 

Pierc'd with the fife's, and trumpet's voice, 
Britannia's warlike youth rejoice ; 
The blended sounds transport their ear. 
While trembling, anxious mothers fear 
These heroes should desert — their quarters 
To Scotland to entice their daughters. 

The northern blast, and driving rains 
Sir Hsirdy Thickset well sustains ; 
Whether the hind, or wily fox 
His fleet hounds urge o'er vales and rocks, 
He drives the chase with perseverance, 
Wor heeds his tender wife's endearance, 
At night returning to console her — 
With feats of Bowman and of Jowler. 

For me — the verdant ivy guerdon 
(Which you. Sir, have my brows confer'd on) 
With many an artless rhyme I jingle, 
Gives me with loftier bards to mingle; 



Me, to enjoy thy cool cascade, 
Thy nodding grove, and checker'd shade. 
And view the smUing nymphs advance. 
To join with thee the festive dance, 
Content if sweet Euterpe deign 
To hear my humble pipe complain ; 
Or when beside the winter fire, 
With careless hand I sweep the lyre. 
The gay fantastic Polyhymny 
Visit the corner of my chimney, 
Inspiring notes of joy and mirth. 
That please and perish in their birth : 
But if thy fair, thy matchless dame 
Approve my verse and stamp my fame. 
In concert with well-judging ***** 
Assign to me her myrtle sprigs. 
And lead me through th' Aonian path 
To join the vocal swans of Bath, 
Not Madge ' in all her glory drest. 
Shall rear so high her tow'ring crest, 
I'll soar above all vulgar eyes, 
And bear my plumage to the skies. 

Cheistophee Anstey." 


DREAD sir ! half human, half divine. 
Descended from a lengthen'd line 
Of heroes famed in story — 

' The heroine of the author's poem of " The Election Ball." 

2 The witty author of the " New Bath Guide." " So much wit," 

wrote Horace Walpole, "so much humour, fun and poetry never 

met together before." 


Of ocean -andispiited lord ; 
Of Europe and ter recreant horde, 
The " riddle, jest, and glory." 

What various sports attract your sons ; 
Some to Hyde Park escape from duns, ' 

In curricle or tandem : 
In dusty clouds envelop'd quite, 
Like Jove, who, from Olympus' height, 

Hurls thunderbolts at random. 

One draws his gold from Lombard Street,' 
Amongst the Lords to buy a seat, 

The Lord knows why or wherefore ; 
Another, give him rural sports. 
And crowded cities, splendid courts. 

He not a jot will care for. 

The merchant, baulk'd by Boreas, vents 
His idle anger and laments 

Sonie luckless speculation : 
Of ease, and Clapham Common, talks 
But soon on Gresham's murmuring walka 

Resumes his daily station. 

Thds makes the jolly God his theme, 
In claret drowns Aurora's beam. 

And riots with the friskers : 
That, a dragoon, delights in arms. 
And thoughtless of mamma's alarms. 

Sports high-heel'd boots and whiskers. 

The hunter quits his bed at five, 
The fox or timorous deer to drive 

Down precipices horrid, 
And carries home, returning late, 
A trophy for his amorous mate. 

The antlers on his forehead. 


Me toil and ease alternate share, 
Books, and the converse of the fair, 

(To see is to adore 'em ;) 
With these and London for my home, 
I envy not the joys of Rome, 
The Circus or the Forum ! 

If you, great sir, wiU deign to vote 
For Horace, in his London coat. 
Nor check my classic fury j 
Great Magog of the lyric train, 
I'll mount to kiss the Muse's twain. 
Who face the Gods of Drury. 

From " Eoraoe m London," by James and 
Horace Smiths 

Pa/rodia Ca/rm. 2, Lib. 1. 

JAM satis pestis, satis atque diri 
Fulminis misit Pater, et rubenti 
Dextera nostras jaculatus arces 
Terruit urbem. 

Terruit cives, grave ne rediret 
Pristinum sseclum nova monstra questum 
Omne cum pestis egit altos 

Visere montes ; 

' Tlie imitations of the first two books of Odes by James and 
Horace Smith, the authors of the ever popular " Eejected Addresses," 
were written originally without any regard to regularity of succes- 
sion, and many of them made a first appearance in the pages of a 
monthly publication. They wei*e collected and published as a whole 
in 1813 under the title of " Horace in London." 


Cum Bcliolae latis genns hsesit agris, 
Nota quae sedes fuerat bubulois, 
Cum toga abjecta pavidus reliquit 
Oppida dootus. 

Vidimus Chamum fluvinm retortis 
Litore a dextro violenter undis 
Ire plorautem mouumenta pestis 

Templa que clausa ; 

Granta dum semet nimium querent! 
Miscet uxori, vagus et sinistra 
Laibitur ripa, Jove comprobante 
Tristior amnis. 

Audiit ccelos acuisse ferrum, 
Quo graves Turcse melius perirent ; 
Audiit mortes vitio parentum 
Rara Juventus. 

Quem vocet Divum populus mentis 
Imparl rebus ? preoe qua fatigent 
Doctior coetus minus audientes 
Carmina ccelos ? 

Cui dabit partes Inis expiandse 
Jupiter, tandem venias, precamur, 
Nube candentes humeros amictus 

Sive tu mavis, Erycina nostra 
Quam Jocus oircumvolat et Cupido, 
Tuque neglectum genus et nepotes 
Auxeris ipsa. 

Sola tain longam removere pestem, 
Quam juvat luctusfaciesqne tristis, 
Prolis optat^ reparare mole 
Sola potesque. 


Siye felici Caroltim figura 
Parvulns princeps imitetur, almaa 
Sive Maries decoret puellam 
Dulcis imago. 

Serns in ooelum re'deas, diuqne 
Lsetus intersis populo Britanno ; 
Neve te nostris vitiis iniqunm 
Ocior aura 

Tollat. Hie magnos potjus trimnphos, 
Hie ames dioi pater atque princeps, 
Et nova njortes reparare prole 
Te patre, Caesar. 

"Andeew Maevel. 


ENOUGH by this of plague and lightning pale 
Our sire has sejit this way, who from his red 
Right hand the hallow'd turrets did assail, 
And thrill'd the town with dread : 

With dread the people thrill'd, lest the dire age 
Return, which mourn'd unwonted horrid sights, 

When the dire Plague sent every, flock to graze 
The lofty, mountain-heights : 

When the broad meadows felt the scholar's tread, 
Where erst the simple herd in peace lay down, 

When, casting off his robes, the doctor fled 
Prom the deserted town. 

We saw the muddied Camus vehement. 

With waves driven backward on Midsummer Plain, 


Bush., mourniiig many a plague-built monument 
And shut-up college fane. 

While Granta with his much-complaining mate 
Is huddled close, and on the thither shore, 

As Jove looks on indifferent to their fate. 
Glides chafing more and more. 

The scatter'd youth are told how angry Heaven 

•Whetteth this sword, more meet for heathen Turks ; 

Are told of hapless crowds to slaughter driven 
By their own father's works. 

What god, I marvel, will the people cite 

To prop their falling state ? How many times 

Must our thrice-learned crowds the gods invite 
To listen to their rhymes ? 

To whom will Jupiter assign the task 

To expiate our blot ? Come then, we pray, 

Hiding thy shoulders in a cloudy mask, 
Be thou our help this day. 

Or wouldst thou rather, Brycina fair, 

Kound whom young Sport and Oupid gambol free. 
Help thy neglected race, and watch with care 

Thine own posterity ? 

Thou ouly may'st remove this Plague malign. 
Whom nothing but sad looks and grief delight ; 

Thou only canst repair our failing line. 
And fairer hopes excite. 

Whether some little Charles, his father's grace 

With happy imitation wear anew, 
'Or the sweet image of Maria's face 

Blush with a maiden hue, — ■ 


Late be thy jburney to the lucent star, 

Long may'st thou tarry here in English clime ; 

Nor any wind pernicious waft thee far, 
Sick of thy people's crime. 

Here rather triumph largely, and aspire 
To be thy people's father as their king ; 

That from the death-invaded race, sire, 
A second stock may spring. 

Andbew Marvel,^ 


NOW fruitful Autumn lifts his sun-burnt head, 
The slighted Park few cambric muslins whiten, 
The dry machines revisit Ocean's bed. 

And Horace quits awhile the town for Brighton. 

The cit foregoes his box at Turnham Green, 
To pick up health and shells with Amphitrite, 

Pleasure's frail daughters trip along the Steyne, 
Led by the dame the Greeks call Aphrodite. 

Phoebus the tanner, plies his fiery trade. 

The graceful nymphs ascend Judea's ponies, 

Scale the West Cliff, or visit the Parade, 

While poor Papa in town a patient drone is. 

Loose trousers snatch the wreath from pantaloons ; 

Nankeen of late were worn the sultry weather in ; 
But now, (so will the Prince's Light Dragoons,) 

White jean have trinmph'd o'er their Indian brethren, 

' This ode appeared originally in "Musa Cantabrigiensis" (1637). 


Here with choice food earth, smiles and ocean yawns, 
Intent alike to please the London glntton, 

This, for our breakfast proffers shrimps and prawns, 
That, for our dinner South- down lambs and mutton. 

Yet here, as elsewhere, death impartial reigns, 

Visits alike the cot and the Pavilion, 
And for a bribe with equal scorn disdains 

My half a crown, and Baring's half a million. 

Alas ! how short the span of human pride ! 

Time flies, and hope's romantic schemes are undone ; 
Cosweller's coach, that carries four inside. 

Waits to take back the unwilling bard to London. 

Te circulatiug novelists, adieu ! 

Long envious cords my black portmanteau tighten j 
Billiards, begone ! avaunt illegal loo ! 

Farewell old Ocean's bauble, glittering Brighton ! 

Long shalt thou laugh thine enemies to scorn, 
Proud as Phenicia, queen of watering places ; 

Boys yet unbreech'd, and virgins yet unborn. 

On thy bleak down shall tan their blooming faces. 

James and Hobacb Smith. 


WHAT mean those amorous curies of jet? 
For what heart-ravisht maid 
Dost thou thy hair in order set. 

Thy wanton tresses braid ? 
And thy vast store of beauties open lay, 
Thatthe deluded fancy leads astray. 


For pitty hide thy starry eyes, 

WTiose languishments destroy, 
And look not on the slave that dies 

With an excess of joy. 
Defend thy coral lips, thy amber breath ; 
To taste these sweets lets in a certain death. 

Forbear, fond charming youth, forbear. 

The words of melting love : 
Thy eyes thy language well may spare, 

One dart enough can move : 
' And she that hears thy voice, and sees thy eyes. 
With too much pleasure, too much softness dies. 

Cease, cease, with sighs to warm my soul 
Or press me with thy hand : 
' Who can the kindling fire controul. 
The tender force withstand ? 
Thy sighs and touches like wing'd lightning fly 
And are the god of love's artillery. 

Aphea Been. 


WHAT gentle youth, my lovely fair one, say 
With sweets perfum'd now courts thee to the 
bow'r, " 
Where glows, with lustre red, the rose of May 
To form thy couch, in love's enchanting hour ? 

By zephyrs wav'd,.why does thy loose hair sweep. 
In simple curls around thy polish'd brow ? 

The wretch that loves thee now, too soon shall weep 
Thy faithless beauty, and thy broken vow. 


Tho' soft the beams of tliy delusive eyes, 

As the smooth surface of th' untroubled stream, 

Yet, ah ! too soon th' extatic vision flies. 
Plies like the fairy paintings of a dream. 

Unhappy youth ! 0, shun the warm embrace, 
H"or trust too much affection's flattering smile ; 

Dark poison lurks beneath that charming facej 
Those melting eyes but languish to beguile. 

Thank heav'n, I've broke the sweet but galling chain, 

Worse than the horrors of the stormy main. 


ODE v., BOOK I. 


HO now from Naples, Rome, or Berlin, 
Creeps to thy blood-stain'd den, O Merlin, 
With .diplomatic gold ? to whom 
Dost thou give audience en costwne ? 

King Citizen t how sure each state 
That bribes thy love, shall feel thy hate ; 
. Shall see the Democratic storm 
•Her commerce, law, and arts deform. 

How credulous, to hope the bribe 
Could purchase peace from Merlin's tribe ! 
Whom, faithless as the waves or wind, 
No oaths restrain, no treaties bind. 

For us — beneath yon sacred roof, 
The naval flags and arms of proof 

' Chatterton, who was ignorant of Latin, paraphrased this and 
Ode XIX. of same book fi-om Watson's prose translation. 


By British valour nobly bought, 
Show how true safety must be sought ! 


From " The AnU-Jacohin," No. 29, May 28, 1798. 

ODE v., BOOK I. 

SAT, Lucy, what enamonr'd spark 
Now sports thee through the gazing Park 
In new barouche or tandem ; 
And as infatuation leads, 
Permits his reason and his steeds 
To run their course at random ? 

Pond youth, those braids of ebon hair, 
Which to a face already fair 

Impart a lustre fairer ; 
Those locks which now invite to love. 
Soon unconfin'd and false shall prove, 

And changeful as the wearer. 

Unpractised in a woman's guUe, 

Thou think'st, perchance, her halcyon smile 

Portends unruffled quiet ; 
That, ever charming, fond and mild, 
No wanton thoughts, or passions wild. 

Within her soul can riot. 

Alas ! how often shalt thou mourn, 
(If nymphs like her, so soon forsworn. 

Be worth a moment's trouble). 
How quickly own, with sad surprise. 
The paradise that bless'd thine eyes 

.Was painted on a bubble. 


In her accommodating creed 
A lord will always supersede 

A commoner's embraces : 
His lordship's love contents the fair 
Until enabled to ensnare 

A nobler prize — ^his grace's ! 

Unhappy are the yonths who gaze, 
Who feel her beauty's maddening blaze, 

And trust to what she utters. 
For me, by sad experience wise. 
At rosy cheeks or sparkling eyes, 

My heart no longer flutters. 

Chamber'd in Albany, I view 
On every side a jovial crew 

Of Benedictine neighbours. 
I sip my coffee, read the news, 
I own no mistress but the Muse, 

And she repays my labours. 

And should some brat her love bespeak, 
(Though illegitimate and weak 

As these unpolish'd verses :) 
A father's joy shall still be mine 
Without the fear of parish fine, 

Bills, beadles, quacks, or nurses. 

James and Hobaoe Smith. 




CHIVALRY, thy gallant reign. 
In prancing epic ballad strain, 
Let Walter Scott indite. 


Channting the deeds inspir'd by thee, 
When red-cross knights arm'd oap-a-pee, 
Rode at the ring fall gallantly, 
Or triumph'd in the fight. 

For me, I strive not, by my fay, 
To imitate the Minstrel's lay. 
Tracing the Palmer on his way, 

Through Scottish bourn and brake : 
TJnform'd for hero's deeds I shun 
The strain of lordly Marmion, 

Or Lady of the Lake. 

My modest Muse, unskill'd in flights 
Of Caledonia's border knights. 
Forbears their glory to rehearse 
In peaceful unpresuming verse. 
Who can describe with honours due 
Of Korthern clans the endless crew, 

Creating endless war ? 
Unnumber'd Macs, of accent rude. 
The Gordon, Home, and Huntly brood, 
Graemes, Fosters, Fenwicka, who pursued 

The amorous Lochinvar. 

Whether or not I feel love's pain, 
I love the light accustom'd strain. 
I sing no feast in hall so gay, » 
Save that upon my Lord Mayor's day ; 
Record no arrow's fatal flight. 
Save Cupid's, feather'd with delight. 
And shoot alone my bloodless darts. 
From beauty's eyes to lover's hearts. 

James and Horace Smith. 



BLESS me ! 'tis cold ; how chill the air ! 
How naked does the world appear ! 
But see (big with the offspring of the north) 
The teeming clouds bring forth ; 
A show'r of soft and fleecy rain 
Falls, to new-clothe the Earth again. 
Behold the mountain-tops around, 
As if with fur of Ermine crown'd ; 
And, lo ! how by degrees 
The universal mantle hides the trees 
In hoary flakes which downward fly, 
As if it were the Autumn of the sky ! 
Trembling the groves sustain the weight, and bow 
Like aged limbs ; which feebly go 
Beneath a venerable head of snow. 

Diffusive cold does the whole earth invade. 
Like a disease thro' all its veins 'tis spread. 
And each late living stream is numb'd and dead. 
Let's melt the frozen hours, make warm the air ; 
Let cheerful fires Sol's feeble beams repair : 
Fill the large bowl with sparkling wine ; 
Let's drink till our own faces shine, 
Till we like suns appear 
To light and warm the hemisphere. 
Wine can dispense to all both light and heat, 
They are with wine incorporate ; 
That pow'rful juice, with which no cold dares mix, 
Which still is fluid, and no frost can fix, 
Let that but in abundance flow. 
And let it storm and thunder, hail and snow ; 


'Tis Heav'n's concern; and let it be 

The care of Heav'n still for me. 

These winds, which rend the oaks and plough the seas, 

Great Jove can, if he please. 

With one commanding nod, appease. 


Seek not to know to-morrow's doom ; 

That is not ours which is to come. 

The present moment's all our store ; 

The next should Heav'n allow, 

Then this will be no more : 

So all our life is but one instant now. 

Look on each day you've past 

To be a mighty treasure won, 

Aiid lay each moment out in haste ; 

We're sure to live too fast, 

And cannot live too soon. 

Youth does a thousand pleasures bring, 

Which from decrepit age will fly. 

The flow'rs that flourish in the Spring, 

In Winter's cold embraces die. 


Now Love, that everlasting boy ! invites 

To revel while you may in soft delights : 

Now the kind nymph yields all her charms, 

Nor yields in vain to youthful arms. 

Slowly she promises at night to meet. 

But eagerly prevents the hour with swifter feet : 

To gloomy groves and obscure shades she flies. 

There vails the bright confession of her eyes : 

Unwillingly she stays, 

Woul^ more unwUlingly depart, 


And in soft sighs conveys 

The whispers of her heart, i^ 

Still she invites, and still denies, 

And vows she'll leave you if you're rude, 

Then from her ravisher she flies, 

But flies to be pursu'd ; 

If from his sight she does herself convey, 

"With a feign'd laugh she will herself betray. 

And cunningly instruct him in the way. 



SEE Richmond is clad in a nlantle of snow : 
The woods that o'ershadow'd the hill 
Now bend with their load, while the river below 
In musical murmurs forgetting to flow. 
Stands mournfully frozen and still. 

Who cares for the winter ? My sunbeams shall shine 

Serene from a register stove ; 
With two or three jolly companions to dine. 
And two or three bottles of generous wine, 

The rest I relinquish to Jove. 

The oak bows its head in the hurricane's swell, 

Condemn'd in its glory to fall ; 
The marigold dies unperceiv'd in the dell, 
Unable alike to retard or impel 

The crisis assign'd to us all. 

Then banish to-morrow, its hopes and its fears, 

To-day is the prize we have won ; 
Ere surly old age in its wrinkles appears, 
With laughter and love in your juvenile years 

Make sure of the days as they run. 


The park and the playhouse my presence shall greet, 

The opera yield its delight ; 
Catalan! may charm me, but oh ! far more sweet 
The mnsical voice of Laurette when we meet 

In Mte-Oi-Ute^ concert at night. 

False looks of denial in vain would she fling,^ 

In vain to some corner begone ; 
And if in our kisses I snatch off her ring, 
It is, to my fancy, a much better thing. 

Than a kiss after putting one on ! 

James and Horace Smith. 


DEAR Silvia let's no farther strive 
To know how long we have to live ; 

Let busy gown-men search to know 
Their fates above, while we 

Contemplate beauty's greater power below 

Whose only smiles give immortality ; 
But -who s«eks fortune in a star 
Aims at a distance much too far. 
She's more inconstant than they are. 
What though this year must be our last. 
Faster than time our joys let's haste ; 
Nor think oif ills to come, or past. 

Give me but love and wine I'll ne'er 

Complain my destiny's severe. 

Since life beard so uncertain date 
With pleasure we'll attend oni" fate, 
And cheerfully go meet it at the gate. 

The brave and witty know no fear or sorrow, 

Let us'-enjoy to-day, we'll dye to-morrow. 

Aphba Behn. 



FORBEAR, my friend ! witli idle schemes, 
To search into the maze of fate ; 
Your horoscoJ)es are airy dreams, 
Tour cofifee-tossing all a cheat ! 

What adds it to onr real peace. 

To know life's accidents or date ? 
The knowledge would our pains increase, 

And make us more unfortunate. 

Wisely conceal'd in endless night, 

Has Heav'n wrapp'd up its dark decrees ; 

The view, too strong for human sight. 
Might else destroy our present ease ; 

Then gladly use the courting hour, 
Enjoy, and make it all your own ! 

And pull with haste the fairest flow'r, 
Ere Time's quick hand have cut it down. 

OJieerful fill up the genial bowl 

And crown it with some lovely toast t 

Till the rich cordial warm your soul, 
A,nd every thought in joy be lost. 

The fleeting moments of delight, 
Improve with an uncommon care ! 

For now they urge their destin'd flight, 
And now are mix'd with vulgar air ! 

Still, let me taste my share of bliss, 

Pure and unmix'd with care and sorrow ! 

No more my friend, in life I wish, 
'Tis all a jest to trust to-morrow. 

Samuel Boyse. 




O GENTLE gtin-boats, whom the Seine 
Discharged from Havre to the main ; 
Now leaky, creaking, blood-bespatter'd, 
With rudders broken, canvas shatter' d — 
tempt the treacherous sea no more. 
But gallantly regain the shore. 
Scarce could our guardian Goddess, Reason, 
Ensure your timbers through the season : 
Though built of wood from famed Marseilles, 
Well mann'd from galleys, and from jails ; 
Though with Lepaux's, and Rewbell's aid, 
By Pleville's skill your keel was laid ; 
Though lovely Stael, and lovelier Stone,' 
Have work'd their fingers to the bone, 
\ And out their petticoats to rags 

To make your bright Three-coloured Blags j 
Yet sacrilegious grape and ball 
Deform the works of Stone and Stael, 
And trembling, without food or breeches. 
Our sailors curse the painted 

' " Stone — better known by the name of Williams." — Note, " Anti- 

Helen Maria 'Williams was pre-eminent among the violent female 
partisans of the French Eevolution. For some years she wrote that 
portion of the " New Annual Register " that relates to France, She 
lived for many years under the protection of Mr. John Stone, 

2 " We decline printing this rhyme at length, from obvious reasons 
of delicacy : at the same time it is so accurate a ta'anslation of pictis 
pwppilms, that we know not how to suppress it without doing the 
utmost injustice to the general spirit of the poem," — Note, " Anti- 


Children, of Muskein's anxious care, 
Source of my hope and raj despair, 
Grun-boats — unless you mean hereafter 
To furnish food for British laughter — 
Sweet gun-boats, with your gallant crew, 
Tempt not the rocks of Saint Marcou; 
Beware the Badger's bloody pennant, 
And that d — d invalid lieutenant ! 

Lord Morpeth, 
Frcm " The Anti-JacoUn," No. 27, May 14, 1798. 


OEIGrOEOUS sons of a clime more severe, 
If Horace in London offend, 
Unbought let him perish, unread disappear, 
But, ah ! do not hasten his end. 

Not whisker'd Geramb who veracity braves 

In boasting of princely delights. 
Not Eowland, when thumping the cushion he raves 

Of Beelzebub's capering sprites, 

Are mad as the martyr, inviting the whips 

Of poesy's merciless reign ; 
Who like Mrs. Brownrigg her 'prentices strips, 

Then kills them with famine and pain. 

'Tis said when the box of Pandore flew ope, 

A treasure was found underneath : 
It seem'd to the vulgar a figure of Hope, 

To poets a laureat wreath. 


'Twas this ignis fatuus tempting to roam, 
That lighted poor Burns to his fate : 

That bade him abandon his plough and his home 
To starve amid cities and state. 

Me too, has the treacherous phantom inspir'd 

In moments of youthful delight ; 
With lyric presumption my bosom has fir'd 

To imitate Horace's might. 

Repentant, henceforth I will write like a dunce 

In prose all the rest of my life, 
If you, dread dissectors, will spare me this once. 

The smart of your critical knife. 

James and Horace Smith. 


To Jjomra. 


HE wood-nymphs crown'd with vernal flow'rs, 

Who roam thro' Tempe's classic bow'rs 
And sport in gambols antic ; 
If e'er they quit their native vales, 
Will find around my cot in Wales, 
A region more romantic. 


Green pastures girt with pendant rock, 
Along who^e steep my snowy flock 

Ad\renturously wanders ; 
Impending shrubs and flowers that gleam » 
Reflected in the crystal stream, 

Which thro' the scene meanders ; 

mrrATioNs of horacr 183 

In sylTan beauty charm the eyes, 
While no ungracious sounds arise 

Of misery or anger ; , , . . 
The song of birds, the insects' hum 
Are never broken by the 'drum, 

Or trumpet's brazen clangor. 

. If sleeping echo starts to mark 1 J . 

The matin carols of the lark 

Or sounds of early labour ; 
Again she seeks her calm retreat, 
Till evening calls her to repeat 

The shepherd's pipe and tabor. 

Whene'er I woo the Muse serene, 
Her magic smile illumes the scene. 

And brighter tints discloses. 
But e'en the Muse's chaplet fades. 
Unless the hand of Oupid braids 

Her myrtles with his roses. 

Haste, then, my Laura, to my bower. 
And let us give the fleeting hour 

To plenty, love, and pleasure : 
Where wanton boughs in arbour wreathej 
I to thy melting harp will breathe 

My amatory measure. 

Let not the town your soul enthral, - 
The crowded rout and midnight ball, 

Those penalties of fashion : 
If nature still have power to please. 
Oh ! hither fly to health and ease, 

And cro-^v^n a poet's passion. 

No jealous fears shall curb your mind, 

Here shall no spirit be cpnfin'd 

By prejudiced opinion. 


My Laura here a Queen shall be, 
From all control and bondage free, 
Save Onpid's soft dominion, 

James and Horace Smith, 


YES ! I am caught, my melting soul 
To Venus bends without control, 
I pour th' impassioned sigh. 
Ye Gods ! what throbs my bosom move. 
Responsive to the glance of love. 
That beams in Stella's eye, 

how divinely fair that face, 
And what a sweet resistless grace 

On every feature dwells ! 
And, on those features, all the while. 
The softness of each frequent smile 

Her sweet good nature tells. 

O Love ! I'm thine, no more I sing 
Heroic deeds — the sounding string 

Forgets its wonted strain ; 
For aught but love, the lyre's unstrung. 
Love melts and trembles on my tongue 

And thrills in every vein. 

Invokiiig the propitious skies. 
The green-sod altar let us rise ; 

Let holy incense smoke, 
And if we pour the sparkling wine. 
Sweet gentle peace may still be mine ; 

This dreadful chain be broke. 

, Chattebton. 



DAME VENUS, who lives but to tcx, 
And Bacchus, the dealer in wine, 
Unite with the love of the sex, 

To harass this poor head of mine. 
Sweet Ellen's the cause of my woe, 

'Tis madness her charms to behold, 
Her bosom's as white as the snow. 
And the heart it enshrines is as cold. 

Her petulant frowns have more grace. 

Than others to smiles can impart, 
The roses that bloom in her face 

Have planted their thorns in my heart. 
Fair Venus, who sprang from the sea, 

Despising the haunts of renown, 
Leaves Brighton, to frolic with me, 

And spend the whole Tvinter in town. 

I sang of the heroes of Spain, 

Who fight in the Parthian mode, 
The goddess grew sick at my strain. 

And handed to Vulcan my ode : 
" Forbear," she exclaim'd, " silly elf. 

With haughty Bellona to rove. 
Leave Spain to take care of herself. — 

Thy song is of Ellen and love." 

Come, Love, bring the Graces along. 

That Ellen may melt at my woes, 
Let fluent B<ousseau gUd my tongue. 

And Chesterfield turn out my toes. 


All no ! I must wield other arms, 
Sweet Ellen, to reign in thy heart, 

Wheil Love owes to Nature his charms, 
How vain are the lessons of art. 

James and Horace Smith. 


IF yon come to dine with me, 
Dainties must not be your care ; 
Harmless pleasure, social glee, 
Aiid the poet's frugal fare : 

These I give, and should my lord 

Me to visit humbly deign, 
Port is all I can afford. 

He must bring the bright champagne. 

Cool beneath a spreading vine, 
Jovial Horace, thirsty chap, he 

Quaff 'd his rich Falernian wine. 
With Msecenas snug and happy. — 

We, in lodgings near the skies, 

Of Apollo humbler scions. 
Banquet amidst London cries. 

And the bray of Kent Street lions. 

George Daniel.^ 

' Author of " The Modern Dunciad," "Virgil in London," &c. 



Printed iefore Mrs, PMll^is' Poems. 

VIETTJB (dear friend,) needs no defence, 
No arms but its own innocence ; 
Quivers and bows, and poison'd darts, 
Are only us'd by guilty hearts. 

An honest mind safely alone 
May travel thro' the burning zone ; 
Or thro' the deepest Scythian snows, 
Or where the fam'd Hydaspes flows. 

While rul'd by a resistless fire. 
Our great Orinda I admire. 
The hungty wolves that see me stray 
TJnarm'd and single, run away. 

Set me in the remotest place 
That ever Neptune did embrace, 
When there, her image fills my breast, 
Helicon is not half so blest. 

Leave nde upon some Libyan plain, 
So she my fancy entertain, 
And when the thirsty monsters liieet, 
They'll all pay homage at my feet. 

The magic of Orinda's name 

Not only can their fierceness tame, 

But i£ that mighty word I once rehearse. 

They seem submissively to roar in verse. 




AS the poet doom'd to linger, 
Phillips, ia thy shop's retreat, 
Cash for copyright to finger. 

Eyes with dread the neighbouring Meet, 

Turns with idle terror pale, if 

Busy crowds his speed molest, 
Thiaks each passenger a baUlff, 

Every jostle an arrest ; 

Thus, dear Chloe, thus you fly me, 

Prithee bid these fears adieu ; 
How ungenerous to deny me 
What I ne'er denied to you. 

I'm no ruthless Blue Beard, daily 

Killing wires, again to wed ; 
I'm no giant Mrs, Bayley, 

Grinding bones to make my bread. 

Love at eighteen is a duty. 

Yield thee, sweet, to Cupid's chain ; 

To confine a full-grown beauty. 
Mothers' apron strings are vain ! 

James and Horace Smith. 



Humbly inscbibed to the Right Honorable William, 
Eael of Bath. 


GREAT Earl of Bath, your reign is o'er ; 
The Tories trust your word no more. 
The Whigs no longer fear you ; 
Tour gates are seldom now unbarr'd, 
No crowd of coaches fills your yard, 
And scarce a soul comes near you. 

Few now aspire to your good graces, 
Scarce any sue to you for places. 

Or come with their petition. 
To tell how well they have deserv'd, 
How long, how steadily they starv'd 

For you in opposition. 

Expect to see that tribe no more, 
Since all mankind perceive that pow'r 

Is lodg'd in others' hands : 
Sooner to Carteret now they'll go, 
Or ev'n (though that's excessive low,) 

To Wilmington or Sandys. 

With your obedient wife retire, 
And sitting silent by the fire, 

A sullen tSte-a-tite, 
Think over all you've done or said, 
And curse the hour that you were made 

TJnprofitably great. 

With vapours there, and spleen o'ercast 
Reflect on all your actions past, 
With sorrow and contrition ; 


And jihere enjoy the thpuglits that rise 
Prom disappointed avarice, 

From frustrated ambition. 

There soon you'll loudly, but in vain, 
Of your deserting friends complain, 

That visit you no more ; 
But in this country 'tis a truth. 
As known as that love follows youth, 
That' friendship follows pow'r. 

Such is the calm of your retreat ! 

Tou through the dregs of life must sweat 

Beneath this heavy load ; 
And I'll attend you, as I've done, 
Only to help reflection on. 

With now and then an ode. 

Sib Chaeles Hanbtjet Williams. 
From " TJiB New Foundling Hospital for WiV 


BBLOV'D by the Muse, I leave care tUl to-morrow, 
And cull pleasure's roses while yet in their 
bloom ; 
The winds that blow round me shall dissipate sorrow, 
And bear the blue devils to Pharaoh's red tomb. 

Thy Emperor, Gaul, may astonish the nations, 
WhUe Neptune forbids him to Britain to roam, 

' This ode, selected from numerous other political parodies by the 
same author, was written on the change of ministry in 1742, when 
Pulteney was created Earl of Bath, with a seat in the cabinet, but 
not holding any office. 


He's free to sow discord in German plantations, 
Then marry, the better to reap it at home. 

Ye Muses, who bathe in clear fountains, and dwell in 
The regions of rhyme with Apollo above, 

Oh ! aid me to sing of my favourite Ellen, 
And warble in chorus the accents of love. 

Come, weave me a chaplet to deck her straw bonnet, 
Tho' small the applause that your labour secures ; 

For sure, if there's faith in my sight or my sonnet, 
Her roses and lilies are brighter than yours. 

James and Horace Smith. 


FIB friends ! were glasses made for fighting, 
And not your hearts and heads to lighten ? 
Quit, quit, for shame, the savage fashion, 
Ifor fall in such a mighty passion. 

" Pistols and balls for six 1 " what sport ! ■ 
How .distant from, " Fresh lights and port ! " 
Get rid of this ungodly rancour. 
And bring your elbows to an anchor. 

Wtat though your stuff is plaguy heady, 
I'll try to hold one bumper steady, 
Let Ned but say what wench's eyes 
Gave him the wound, of which he dies. 

Ton won't ? then, dammee if I drink ! 
A proper question thus to blink ! 
Come, come, for whomsoe'er you feel 
Those pains, you always sin genteel. 
And were your girl the dirtiest drab-^ 
{Ton know I never was a blab,) 


Out witli it ; wliisper soft and low ; — 
What ! is it she ? the filthy frow. 
ToTiVe got a roaring sea to tame, 
Boy, worthy of a better flame ! 

What Lapland witch, what cunning man, 
Can free you of this harridan ? 
St. George himself, who slew the dragon 
Would idly waste his strength this hag on. 



AWAY with dull politics ! prythee let's talk 
Of something to set all the club in a titter ; 
The aim of convivial meetings we baulk, 

When thus we our sweetest enjoyments embitter. 
Fill, fill up a bumper, be merry and wise. 

And check these dissensions before they too far get ; 
Say, Colonel, what pretty girl's arrowy eyes 

Have chosen your heart for their amorous target. 

Refuse ! then the bottle no farther shall pass : 
Nay, hang it, this chilling reserve is a folly ; 

I'm sure it's no cherry oheek'd nursery lass, 
No three per cent dowdy, no demirep Dolly, 

Come, whisper ! my ear is as safe as the Bank, 
Where all that goes in is for ever impounded. 

What, Lucy ! adzooks ! then your prize is a blank : 
With imps in blue jackets for life you're surrounded. 

Mrs. Clarke's costly freaks she will presently beat, 
And if you don't quit the extravagant wench, 

You'll Soon quit the Army to starve in the Meet, 
Or change your own seat for his Majesty's Bench. 
James and Hoeace Smith. 



LUCRETIUS, tto' thy numbers could embrace, 
(Tbus Busby spoke,) tbe secret plans of Fate, 
Lay bare the haunts of matter, form, and space, 
And all creation in the song create ; 

O'er thy dead stanzas now Arachne weaves 
Her web to hide thee from a buzzing crowd ; 

Dishonourable dust o'erspreads thy leaves. 
And Hermes wraps thee in oblivion's shroud. 

To whom, Lucretius — fugitive and fleet, 

Religious dogmas yield to age's tooth ; 
Like the loose sand beneath Achilles' feet. 

They melt and crumble at the touch of Truth. 

Bach mystic zealot, heavenward points the way, 
Heav'n mocks alike the artist and the art : 

Where is thy solar system, Tycho Brahe ? 

Where now thy eddying vortices, Des Cartes ? 

Some dreaming seers with angels converse hold. 
Some teaz'd by Satan, Faith's palladium guard. 

faine, Priestley, sleep in Transatlantic mould. 

And Godwin slumbers in Saint Paul's Churchyard. 

One night o'ershadows systems old and new. 

Death to the fatal ferry all consigns. 
And not a head amid the sapient crew, 

But whispers Mte-a-tSte with Proserpine's. 

Me, too, death summons to my kindred soil. 
Philosophy's new lamp out-dazzles mine : 

Out-dazzles ! no ! dipp'd in thy midnight oil. 
My glimmering taper yet again may shine. 


Arouse thee, rhymster, bid thy boy rehearse : 
And, whilst around thy drowsy audience nod, 

Lest the pale urchin mar thy labour'd verse, 

Wield o'er his trembling head thy grandsire's rod. 

So may Apollo, in Queen Ann Street West, 
Pull o'er thy Muse his warbling choir uncage, 

Names fill thy index, Plutus fill thy chest, 
And dedication smooth thy hot-press'd page. 

Hah ! daubt'st thou, recreant ? does thy lazy wit 
To snatch from Lethe's pit my verse refuse ? 

Then may new Drury's widely yawning pit 
O'erwhelm thy urchin, and engulph thy Muse. 

That threat prevails, thou sweep'st thy classic chords ; 

Laud we the Gods ! Lucretius now is free ; 
Come affluent Commoners, come pursy Lords, 

Down with your dust to shake the dust from me ! 

James amd Horace Smith. ' 


AS Bella dress'd the other day. 
My lyre upon her toilet lay ; 
Here said the wanton, prithee sing. 
And try if Venus you can bring. 
My voice I raise, my fingers play, 
(For lovers always must obey.) 

' Busby's " Lucretius'' was fair game for all the wits and satirists of 
that period. Lord Byron remarks about it in his " Journal," Nov. 16, 

1813; " is an adept in the text of the original, (which Hike 

too ;) and when that booby Bus. sent her Ms translating prospectus, 
she subscribed ; but, the devil prompting him to add a specimen, she 
transmitted him a subsequent answer, saying, that ' after perusing 
it, her conscience would not permit her tb allow her name to remain 
on the list of subscribblers.' " 


The lyre I from its sleep awoke, 
While thus the Goddess I invoke : 
Queen of love ! and queen of joy ! ■ 
Hither, hither, hither, fly ! 
Sweet perfumes their odours raise, 
Here a sister Goddess stays : 
O come and with thee bring along 
Of little loves a smiling throng ; 
O with thee bring the Graces too ! 
And if once more thy bard may sue, 
Let wit the little Cupid guide, 
Wit and love should be ally'd. 
They come not, said the smiling fair, 
Yes, yes, they are already here ; 
In that resplendent mirror view 
Love's Goddess and the Graces too. 

AtJTHOB OP " The Duel," 1731. 


WHAT does the poet's modest wish require ? 
What boon does he of gracious Heav'n desire ? 
Not the large crops of Esham's goodly soil, 
Which tire the mower's and the reaper's toil ; 
Not the soft flocks, on hilly Gotswold fed, 
Nor Leinster fields with living fleeces clad : 
He does not ask the grounds, where gentle Thames 
Or Severn spread their fat'ning streams, 

Where they with wanton windings play. 
And eat their widen'd banks insensibly away : 
He does not ask the wealth of Lombard street 
Which consciences and souls are pawn'd to get. 
Nor those exhaustless mines of gold. 
Which Guinea and Peru in their rich bosoms hold. 


Let those that live in the Canary Isles, 
On which indulgent Nature ever smiles, 
Take pleasure in their plenteous vintages. 
And from the juicy grape its racy liquor press : 
Let wealthy merchants when they dine. 
Run over their costly names of wine, 
Their chests of Morence and their Mont Alchine, 
Their Mants, Champagns, Chablees, Frontiniaoks tell, 
Their anms of Hock, of Backrag and Mosell : 

He envies not their luxnry. 
Which they with so much pains and danger bny : 
For which so many storms and wrecks they bear, 
For which they pass the streights so oft each year, 
And 'scape so narrowly the bondage of Argier. 

He wants no Cyprus birds, nor ortolans, 

Nor dainties fetch'd from far to please his sense. 

Cheap wholsom herbs content his frugal board, 

The food of unfaln innocence. 
Which the meanst village garden does afford : 
Gfrant him, kind Heav'n, the sum of his desires. 
What Nature, not what Luxury requires : 
He only does a competency claim. 
And, when he has it, wit to use the same : 
Grant him sound health, impair'd by no disease, 

Nor by his own excess : 
Let him in strength of mind and body live, 
But not his reason, nor his sense survive : 
His age, (if age he e'er must live to see,) 
Let it from want, contempt and care be free. 
But not from mirth, and the delights of poetry : 
Grant him but this, he's amply satisfi'd. 
And scorns whatever Fate can give beside. 

John Oldham. 



IF e'er with, thee we fool'd away, 
Vacant beneath the shade, a day, 
Still kind to our desire ; 
A Scotish song we now implore. 
To live this year, and some few more, 
Come then my Scotish lyre, 

Mrst strung by Stewart's cunning hand. 
Who rul'd fair Scotia's happy land, 

A long and wide domain : 
Who bold in war, yet whether he 
Eeliev'd his wave-beat ship from sea. 

Or camp'd upon the plain, 

The joys of wine, and Muses young. 
Soft beauty, and her page he sung. 

That still to her adheres ; 
Margaret, author of his sighs, 
Adorn'd with comely coal-black eyes, 

And comely coal-black hairs. 

O thou, the Grace of song and love. 
Exalted to the feasts above, 

The feast's supreme delight ; 
Sweet balm to heal our cares below, 
Gracious on me thy aid bestow, 

If thee I seek aright. 

William Hamilton of Bangoue.' 

' Author of " The Braes of Yarrow." 



SWEET Muse ! beneath Apollo's ray, 
If ever I, your charms adoring, 
Begot a jocund roundelay, 

The noisy gods though^ worth encoring — 

Come now, and with yoi^r archest smile. 
Inspire, sweet maid, ^ comic ditty, 

Something in Colman's hamorous style, 
And just about one third as witty. 

By either sister lov'd, caress'd, 

He, gay deceiver, picks and chuses ; 

To serve two masters is no jest. 

But he contrives to serve two Muses. 

Now he pourtrays the man of pelf, 
Unmov'd by Tarico's disaster ; 

And now the Latin- quoting elf. 

Still cringing to the wealthiest master. 

.To Afric's sultry plain convey'd, 

To paint the ardent Moor's distresses. 

He toys with Sutta, dingy maid. 
With eyes as sable as her tresses. 

From grave to gay he loves to fly, 

Whilst I with you alone would tarry ; 

A constant Colonel Standard I, 
And he a volatile Sir Harry. 

O pride of Phoebus ! heavenly fair ! 

Rare visitant at great men's tables. 
Whose smiles can make old-fashion'd care, 

Doff for awhile his suit of sables. 


Enroll me on your jovial stafiF, 

Sworn foe to sentimental sadness, 

And I will live to love and laugh, 

And wake the lyre to you and gladness. 

James ajsd Hoeaob Smith. 


GRIEVE not too much, my friend, to find 
Tour Chloe faithless or unkind ; 
No more in mournful strains express 
An undeserving boy's success. 
Clarinda, high in beauty's charms, 
For Damon spreads her eager arms ; 
While heedless of her flame, he dies 
By Ctelia's less bewitching eyes. 
But wolves to kids shall harmless prove. 
Ere she repay his love with love. 
To brazen yokes thus Venus binds 
Ill-coupled forms, and jarring minds, 
And, gayly cruel, laughs to see 
The restless lovers disagree. 
Me when Oleora fondly woo'd, 
A meaner mistress I pursu'd, 
Unpitying as the waves that roar 
Against Calabria's crooked shore. 

" Oentlemcm's Magazine," April, 1739. 


AMIDST a herd of learned fools, 
I traced old Epicurus' rules, 
Thro' all the mazes of the schools, 

And seldom deign' d to pray : 


Bat now DO more his schemes prevail ; 
I veer to catch a diff 'rent gale, 
And to Religion's harbour sail, 

As Reason points the way. 

Array'd in all the pomp of war, 
The God ascends his burning car ; 
Quiver the lightnings from afar, 

And the big clouds divide : 
Involv'd in horrid gloom, he flies. 
Impetuous, down the passive skies. 
Whilst round his throne loud tempests rise, 

And fires before him glide. 

Heaven shrinks beneath his rolling wheels 
His thunder shakes th' eternal hills. 
And the vast flood her bed reveals 

To shun th' approaching God ; 
Ev'n the deep vaults of Hell below, 
Where streams of endless torment flow, 
Tremble, while horrid lightnings glow. 

Thro' all the dark abode. 

Almighty God \ Eternal king ! 

Who can thy matchless glories sing ? 

From thee the fates of nations spring, 

And tyrants own thy sway ; 
Whose pow'r can pull the lofty down, 
Exalt the peasant to a throne. 
And place the deeds of hands unknown 

Amid the blaze of day. 
" Gentleman's Magazine," January, 1742. 



Bt a Jacobin. 


GODDESS, whose dire terrific power 
Spreads from thy much loved Grallia's plains, 
Where'er her blood-stain'd ensigns lower. 
Where'er fell Rapine stalks, or barb'rous Discord 
reigns ! 

Thon, who canst lift to fortune's height 
The wretch by truth and virtue scorn'd. 
And crush with insolent delight, 
All whom true merit raised, or noble birth adorn'd ! 

Thee, oft the murd'rous band implores. 
Swift darting on its hapless prey ; 
Thee, wafted from fierce Afric's shores. 
The Corsair chief invokes to speed him on his way. 

Thee, the wild Indian tribes revere ; 
Thy charms the roving Arab owns ; 
Thee, kings, thee tranquil nations fear, 
The bane of social bliss, the foe to peaceful thrones. 

For soon as thy loud trumpet calls 
To deadly rage, to fierce alarms. 
Just Order's goodly fabric fallsj 
Whilst the mad people cries, "to arms, to arms !" 

With thee. Proscription, child of strife, 
With death's choice implements is seen ; 
Her murd'rer's gun, assassin's knife. 
And " last not least in love," her darling Guillotine. 


Fond hope is thine, — ^the hope of spoil, 
And faith, — such faith as ruffians keep : 
They prosper thy destructive toil, 
That makes the widow mourn, the helpless orphan 

Then false and hollow friends retire. 
Nor yield one sigh to soothe despair ; 
Whilst crowds triumphant vice admire. 
Whilst harlots shine in robes that deck'd the great and 

Guard our famed chief to Britain's strand ! 
Britain, our last, our deadliest foe : 
Oh, guard his brave associate band ! 
A band to slaughter train'd, and " nurs'd in scenes of 

What shame, alas ! one little Isle 
Should dare its native laws maintain ? 
At Gallia's threats serenely smile, 
And, scorning her dread power, triumphant rule the 

For this have guiltless victims died, 
In crowds at thy ensanguined shrine ! 
For this has recreant Gallia's pride 
O'erturn'd religion's fanes, and braved the wrath divine! 

What throne, what altar, have we spared 
To spread thy power, thy joys impart ? 
Ah then, our faithful toils reward ! 
And let each falchion pierce some loyal Briton's heart. 


" Anti-Jacobin," No. 9, JomuMnj 8th, 1798. 



GODDESS ! by grateful gulls ador'd, 
Whose wand can make a clown a lord, 
And lords to coachmen humble : 
Whose Midas touch our gold supplies, 
Then bids our wealth in paper rise, 

Rise ? Zounds ! I should say tumble ! 

Thee barking Fire Assurance baits ; 
With face as brazen as her plates 

She in thy lobby lingers : 
But fire, alas ! to smoke will turn, 
And sharers, though no houses burn. 

Are sure to burn their fingers. 

In troubled water others fish. 

Locks, docks, canals, their utmost wish ; 

They're welcome if they love it : 
They who on water money lend. 
Can seldom manage in the end. 

To keep their heads above it. 

Who sinks in earth but sinks in cash ; 
'Tis to make nothing but a smash, 

Do nothing, but undoing : 
New bridges halt amid the flood, 
New roads desert us in the mud, 

And turn out "roads to ruin." 

The knavish crew in bubbles skill' d. 
Next, high in air, their castles build, 

But air too mocks their trouble ; 
Balloons to earth too quickly slope, 
And Winsor's gas, like Windsor soap, 

When blown, appears a bubble. 


Oh Fortune ! in tty giddy march, 

Kick down, (and welcome,) Highgate Arch, 

Bnt be content with one ill, 
When from the gallery ruin nods, 
Oh ! whisper silence to the gods. 

And spare the Muses Tunnel ! ^ 

Grim bankruptcy thy path besets 
With one great seal and three gazettes 

Suspendent from her shoulders : 
Diggers and miners swell her train, 
Who having bored the earth in vain, 

Now bore the poor shareholders. 

While vulgar dupes compell'd to pay, 
Decoy'd too far to fly away. 

Are caught and pluck'd like tame dacks. 
Their pools of fancied wealth are lakes. 
Wherein their cash makes ducks and drakes, 

Till they themselves are lame ducks. 

Farces like those to send adrift. 
Blind Goddess, give my farce a lift. 

And bid me touch the Spanish : 
Too weak to brave the critic's scorn, 
So shall it serve the weak to warn. 

And quack imposters banish. 

Those rampant " minions of their breed" 
Too long from Ketch's halter freed, 

Pursue their slippery courses. 
Gorged with their asinine repast, 
Oh ! grant they may devour at last 

Themselves, like Duncan's horses. 

James and Hobace Smith. 

' A ridiculous farce which met with undeserved favour, and is now 
deservedly forgotten. 



DEAR Jenny, to confess my mind, 
I never yefc could bear. 
To see the lovely maid I priz'd 
By ev'ry greasy prig disgnis'd, 
With, powder and false hair. 

Be cleanliness thy morning care, 

Nor covet Art's attire ; 
In native elegance compleat, 
Ton look as fair, and kiss as sweet. 

As love and I desire. 
From " The New Foundling Hospital for Wit." 


HERE, waiter, I'll dine in this box, 
I've look'd at your long bill of fare ; 
A Pythagorean it shocks 

To view all the rarities there. 

I'm not overburden'd with cash. 
Roast beef is the dinner for me ; 

Then why should I eat calipash. 
Or why should I eat calipee ? 

Tour trifle's no trifle, I ween, 

To customers prudent as I am ; 
Tour peas in December are green. 

But I'm not so green as to buy 'em. 


With ven'son I seldom am fed — 
Go bring me the sirloin, yon ninny ; 

Who dines at a guinea a head, 

Will ne'er by his head get a gninea. 

James and Horace Smith. 


Tlie Lord Griffin to the EaH of Scwrsdale, 

DO not, most fragrant Earl, disclaim 
Thy bright, thy reputable flame 
To Bracegirdle the brown ; 
But publicly espouse the dame, 
And say G — d — the town. 

Full many heroes, fierce and keen, 
With drabs have deeply smitten been, 

Although right good commanders ; 
Some who with yon have Hounslow seen. 

And some who've been in Flanders, 

Did not base Greber's Peg inflame 
The sober Earl of Nottingham, 

Of sober sire descended ? 
That, careless of his soul and fame, 
To playhouses he nightly came. 

And left church undefended. 

The monarch who of France is hight. 
Who rules the roast with matchless might, 

Since William went to Heaven ; 
Loves Maintenon, his lady bright. 
Who was but Scarron's leaving 


Though thy dear's father kept an inn, 
At grisly head of Saracen, 

For carriers at Northampton ; 
Tet she might come of gentler kin, 

Than e'er that father dreamt on. 

Of proffers large her choice had she, 
Of jewels, plate and land in fee. 

Which she with scorn rejected ; 
And can a nymph so virtuous, be 

Of base-born blood suspected ? 

Her dimple cheek, and roguish eye. 
Her slender waist, and taper thigh, 

I always thought provoking ; 
But faith, tho' I talk waggishly, 

I mean no more than joking. 

Then be not jealous, friend, for why ? 
My lady Marchioness is nigh, 

To see I ne'er shall hurt ye ; 
Besides, you know fall well that I 

Am turn'd of five and forty. 

N. RowE. 


On a faw gentlewoman scource marriageable, 

WHY should passion lead thee blind, 
'Cause thy Lydia proves unkind ? 
She is too young to know delight, 
And is not plum'd for Cupid's flight : 
She cannot yefc, in height of pleasure. 
Pay her love with equal measure ; 
But, like a rose new blown, doth feed 
The eye alone, but yields no seed. 


She is but yet in her Spring, 
And bears no fruit till Cupid bring 
A hotter season with his fire, 
Which soon will ripen her desire : 
Autumn will shortly come and greet her, 
Making her taste and colour sweeter ; 
And then her ripeness will be such, 
That she will fall e'en with a touch. 

Wm. Heebeet, third EiEL OF Pembeoke. 


YOUR Muse is too young for the trade. 
Forbear the poor soul to caress : 
The tender, the delicate maid 

Will die with the weight of the press. 

Still let her on Pegasus stray, 

But pace in a canter at most, 
The meads of La Belle Assemblee, 

The Ladies' Museum and Post. 

To critical batteries blind. 

How many a volunteer Muse, 
Her magazines leaving behind. 

Has met with her death in reviews. 

Then weigh well the pros and the cons, 
Shew nought of the goose but its quill ; 

Get tribute from critical dons. 

And then teach the Spanish at will. 

Then gallop, or canter, or trot, 

Tour Muse will the labour endure ; 


Fight cap-a-pied heroes with Scott, 
Woo sensitive beauty with Moore ; 

Then rhyming, or prosing, or soft, 

Or rugged, your thoughts you may blab ; 

Write egotist essays with Loft, 

Or workhouse heroics with Crabbe. 

While booksellers kindle your urn. 

And puff your funereal fires. 
Tour flames shall continue to burn. 

Long after your fuel expires. 

James and Hokace Smith. 


BBVIL, that with your friend would roam 
Far from your England's happier home. 
Should e'er the Fates that friend detain 
In gayer France, or graver Spain ; 

Know, all my wish is to retreat, 
When age shall quench my youthful heat, 
In Kentish shades sweet peace to find, 
And leave the sons of care behind. 

But should this pleasing hope be vain. 
May I fair Windsor's seat attain, 
Where Leddon's gentle waters glide. 
And flocks adorn its flowery side. 

Sweet groves, I love your silent shades, — 
Tour russet lawns, and op'ning glades, 
With fam'd Italia's plains may vie 
Tour fertile fields and healthful sky. 


Here, let our eve of life be spent ; 
Here friend shall live with friend content : 
Here in cold earth my limbs be laid, 
And here, thy generous tear be paid. 

Sir James Maeeiott. 


MUSE, at whose gate I've oft times knock'd, 
In fancy's dream thy charms caressing ; 
Whose maid my dignity has shock' d, 

As oft, by answering, Sir, she's dressing. 

O'er my last lay thy gold dust shake, 

A guinea for each line I spin is 
The lowest farthing I can take ; 

The whole will cost three thousand guineas. 

Then let me write from youth to age. 
And when the critics dub me Crassus, 

With a low bow I'll quit the stage, 
And sport a villa near Parnassus. 

Safe from adversity's attacks. 

There let me quaff from Phcebus' chalice. 
In a snug house, like trusty Mac's, 

Adjoining to my sovereign's palace. 

But if the envious fates refuse, 

And dub my tuneful swan a raven, 

Pjuik thy portmanteau, injured Mase, 
And seek with me Britannia's haven. 

A lane near Cripplegate extends. 

Grub Street 'tis call'd, the London Pindus, 


Where, but that bards are seldom friends, 

Bards might shake hands from adverse windows. 

There Thyrsis tunes his oaten reed, 

(Nought oaten else to make him merry,) 

There grave Virginia smokes her weed. 
And Juniper distils his berry. 

All loftier tenants I discard, 

I soar to catch Apollo's favour ; 
The attic floor shall prop the bard, 

And attic salt his porridge savour, 

And when from poet's goal I reach. 

With body lean and tunic shabby, 
Chaunt, widow'd Muse, my dying speech, 

And shroud my ashes in the Abbey. 

James and Horace Smith. 


I WOULD believe you once again, 
Were you a tooth or nail the worse 
For every oath you take in vain, 
And every violated curse : 

Tho' you bid Jasus fire your bones, 
Confound yourself and all your kin, 

Blast those bright eyes, like precious stones. 
Damn Helen's limbs and Leda's skin. 

False and forsworn a thousand times, 

O'Brien's still the public toast, 
Still grows more lovely for her crimes, 

Godby's intrigue and Welche's boast. 


Thy perjury and subtle arts 

Venus and Cupid smiling view ; 
Fell Love that whets with blood his darts, 

On whetstone of infernal blue. 

For thee our youth shoot up and grow ; 

Each day adds captives to thy store ; 
Nor can the old exhausted bean 

Forbear to hanker at the door. 

Mothers and Misers fear thee still ; 

Young beauteous brides are in alarms, 
Lest thy maturer charms and skill 

Should draw their husbands to thy arms. 

John Hall Stivenson.' 


IV on your head some vengeance fell, 
Moira, for every tale you tell, 

The listening Lords to cozen ; 
If but one whisker lost its hue, 
Changed (like Moll Coggia's tail) to blue, 
I'd hear them by the dozen. 

But still, howe'er you draw your bow. 
Your charms improve, your triumphs grow, 

New grace adorns your figure ; 
More stiff your boots, more black your stock, 
Your hat assumes a prouder cock, 

Like Pistol's (if 'twere bigger). 

1 Autlior of " Crazy Tales." 


Tell then yoiir stories, strange and new, 
Yonr Father's fame shall vouch them true ; 

So shall the Dublin papers : 
Swear by the stars that saw the sight, 
That infant thousands die each night. 

While troops blow out their tapers.' 

Shuckburgh shall cheer you with a smile, 
Macpherson simpering all the while, 

With Bastard and with Bruin : 
And fierce NichoU, who wields at will 
The emphatic stick or powerful quill, 

To prove his country's ruin. 

Each day new followers crowd your board. 
And lean expectants hail my lord. 

With adoration fervent : 

Old Thurlow, though he swore by G 

No more to own a master's nod. 

Is still your humble servant. 

Old Pulteney too your influence feels. 
And asks from you the Exchequer seals. 
To tax and save the nation : 
Tooke trembles lest your potent charms 
Should lure Charles Fox from his fond arms, 
To your Administration. 
G. Ellis.2 
" Anti-Jacobin," No. 11, Jan. 22. 

' Referring to Lord Moira's complaints against the Government 
agents for cruelty to the Irish rebels. 

' This ode refers to negotiations opened by a Third Party in the 
House of Commons with Lord Moira with a view to effect a change 
of ministry. 




NOT for ever bleak November, 
Chills the gayly dancing hours ; 
Rolling time, dear girl, remember, 

Decks the bright parterre with flowers. 

Ice the Serpentine may cover. 

Oaks their leafless boughs display ; 

What care I ? the winter over, 
Soon shall follow laughing May. 

Why shouldst thou, all joy denying, 
Still in tears thy kerchief steep ? 

Pale Aurora hears thy sighing, 
Setting Phoebus sees thee weep. 

Clad in bombazeen and cam'let, 
Gertrude wept a monarch dead : 

See her soon, forgetting Hamlet, 
Take his brother to her bed. 

Dido, torn from poor SichsBus, 
Thus repining sought relief: 

" Anna ! don't you think ^neas 
Might contrive to heal my grief ? " 

Thy good man in sleep reposes : 
Soon thou wilt another choose : 

Widows' weeds all turn to roses, 
When a comely suitor woos. 

Give the hours to joyous greeting, 
Vulgar sorrows far above ; 

Youth and beauty, O how fleeting ! 
O, how fleeting, woman's love ! 


Let us sing the song you relish, 

Who at Brighton bears the bell, 
Walking Barclay, racing Mellish, 

Fun, and vive la bagatelle ! 

Tears from Pluto's dark dominion 

Cannot now thy husband keep, 
If they could, 'tis my opinion 

Those bright eyes would cease to weep. 

James and Hokace Smith. 


AMID the vale the slender shrubbe is hid from all 
When taller tree that standes aloft, is rent with thunder 

clappe ; 
The turret tops which touch the clouds are beat with 

every blast, 
Soon shivered are their stones with storme and quickly 

overcast : 
Best bodyed tree in all the worlde for timber beame is 

And to the axe the sturdiest oak doth yeelde and fall 

to grounde : 
The highest hill doth soonest feele the flash of lightninges 

And soone decayes the pompe and pryde of high re- 
nowned name. 
Of all the heard the huntsman seekes by proof as doth 

With double forked arrowhead to wound the greatest 


The haughtiest head of all the droTe enjoyes the 

shortest life, 
And stains the slaughter house with blood, at prick of 

butcher's knife. 
Thus what thing highest place attaines is soonest over- 

Whatever fortune sets aloft she threats to throw it 

downe : 
And though no force resist thy power, and seeke thee 

to confound, 
Yet doth the praise of weighty thinges declyne itselfe 

to ground. 
For restlesse tipe of rowlling wheele example hath it 

To heavy burden yeelde it must full soone and slippe 

What vailes the rich his bed of downe, that sighes for 

sleeples thought, 
What time on couch of flock the poore sleepes sound 

and feareth nought ; 
At homely boord his quiet foode, his drinks in treene be 

When oft the proud in cuppes of gold, with wine receive 

their bane. 
The bed, the boord, the dread in doubt, with trayne to 

be opprest, 
When fortune frownes, their power must yeelde as wjre 

unto the wrest. 
Whoso thou be that sits alow, and tread the valley's 

Thou needes not feare the thunder bolts of mighty Jove 

his wrath. 
If Icarus had not presumed too high to take his flight, 
He had not yet been drowned in seas that now Icarion 

hight ; 


If Phaeton had not enterprised to guide his father's 

His fires had not inflamed the world nor beene de- 
stroyed with heate ; 
But who climes above the meane, there is no hope of 

The higher up, the sooner downe, and nearer his decay. 
Then you that here in pompe are plaste, to guide the 

golden mace, 
Let crowne and scepter both obay the meane of virtue's 

For neither shall renowned virtue see the pitte of hell, 
ISor yet in tombe of marble stone she shall abide to 

dwell : 
And in that tombe full bravely dect, when that she shall 

God send her rest, and all thinges well according to 

But from sepulcher flies she hence beyond the skies 

And glistering in the blissful starres she raignes with 

mighty Jove. 

Jaspee Hbtwood. 

From " The Paradise of dcdnty devioes," ed. 1580. 



From Pcml Foley to Nicholas Fomake/rhy hy 

A Person op Honour. 


NEVER, dear Faz, torment thy brain, 
With idle fears of France or Spain, 
Or any thing that's foreign : 
What can Bavaria do to ns ? 
What Prussia's monarch, or the Russ ? 
Or ev'n Prince Charles of Lorrain ? 

Let us be cheerful whUe we can, 
And lengthen out the short-liv'd span, 

Enjoying ev'ry hour. 
The moon itself we see decay ; 
Beauty's the worse for ev'ry day, 

And so's the sweetest flow'r. 

How oft, dear Paz, have we been told 
That Paul and Paz are both grown old, 

By young and wanton lasses : 
Then since onr time is now so short, 
Let us enjoy the only sport 

Of tossing off oTir glasses. 

Prom White's we'll move th' expensive scene, 
And steal away to Richmond Green ; 

There free from noise or riot, 
Polly each morn shall fill our tea, 
Spread bread and butter, and then we 

Each night get drunk in quiet. 


Unless perchance Earl Leicester comes, 
As noisy as a dozen drums, 

And makes a horrid pother : 
Else might we quiet sit and quafif, 
And gently chat and gayly laugh 

At this, and that, and t'other. 

Bristow shall settle what's to pay. 
Adjust accounts by algebra, 

I'll always order dinner ; 
Bristow, tho' solemn, yet is sly, 
And leers at Poll with roguish eye. 

To make the girl a sinner. 

Powell, (d'ye hear ?) let's have the ham. 
Some chickens, and a chine of lamb ; 

And what else — let's see — look ye, 
Bristow must,have his damn'd bouilli ; 
Bath fattens on his fricassee ; 

I'll have my water-suchy. 

When dinner comes, we'll drink about, 
(JSo matter who is in or out,) 

Till wine or sleep o'ertake us ; 
Each man may nod, or nap, or wink ; 
And when it is our turn to drink, 

Our neighbour then shall wake us. 

Thus let us live in soft retreat. 
Nor envy nor despise the great, 

Submit to pay our taxes ; 
With peace or war be well content, 
Till eas'd by a good Parliament, 

TUl Scrope his hand relaxes. 

Never enquire about the Rhine, 
But fill your glass and drink your wine, 
Hope things may mend in Flanders. 


The Dutch, we know, are good allies ; 
So are they all with subsidies ; 
And we have choice commanders. 

Then here's the King ; God bless his Grace ! 
Tho' neither you nor I have place, 

He has many a sage adviser. 
And yet no treason's sure in this, 
Let who will take the pray'r amiss ; 

God send them all much wiser.' 



Dedicated to Ms pecidiar friend, Mr. John WicJces, 
wndw the naime of " Postlmrrms." 


AH Posthumus ! our years hence flye 
And leave no sound : nor piety, 
Or prayers, or vow, 
Can keep the wrinkle from the brow : 
But we must on. 
As Fate does lead or draw us. None, 
None, Posthumus, could e'er decline 
The doom of cruell Proserpine. 

The pleasing wife, the house, the ground, 
Must all be left : no one plant found 

To follow thee. 
Save, only, the curst cipresse tree. 

^ Paul Foley and Kicholas Fazakerly were well-known members 
of the old Club at White's. 

' This ode has also been attributed to Sir Charles Hanbury 


, A merry mind 
Looks forward, scornes what's left behind : 
Let's live, my Wickes, then while we may ! 
And here enjoy our holiday. 

Wave seen the past best times, and these 
Will nere return, we see the seas. 

And moons to wain ; 
But they fill up their ebbs again : 

But vanisht man 
Like to a lilly-lost, nere can, 
Nere can repuUulate, or bring 
His dayes to see a second Spring. 

But on we must, and thither tend. 
Where Anchus and rich TuUus blend 

Their sacred seed : 
Thus has iafernall Jove decreed ; 

We must be made, 
Ere long a song, ere long a shade : 
Why then, since life to us is short. 
Let's make it full up by our sport. 

Crown we our heads with roses then. 
And 'noint with Tirian balme ; for when 

We two are dead. 
The world with us is buried. 

Then live we free, 
As is the air, and let us be 
Our own fair wind and mark each one 
Day with the white and luckie stone. 

We are not poore ; although we have 
No roof of cedar, nor our brave 

Baise, nor keep 
Account of such a flock of sheep ; 


TSar bullocks fed 
To lard the shambles : barbels bred 
To kisse our hands, nor do we wish 
For PoUio's lampries in our dish. 

If we can meet, and so conferre 
Both by a shining salt-seller ; 

And have our roofe. 
Although not archt, yet weather proofe, 

And seeling free, 
Prom that cheap candle baudery : 
We'll eat our beane with that full mirth. 
As we were lords of all the earth. 

Well then, on what seas we are tost, 
Our comfort is, we can't be lost. 

Let the winds drive 
Our barke ; yet she will keepe alive 

Amidst the deepes ; 
'Tis constancy (my Wickes) which keepes 
The pinnace up ; which though she erres 
I' th' seas, she saves her passengers. 

Say we must part (sweet mercy blesse. 
Us both i' th' sea, camp, wUdernesse,) 

Can we so farre 
Stray, to become lesse circular, 

Than we are now ?• 
No, no, that selfe same heart, that vow 
Which made us one, shall ne'r undoe ; 
Or ravell so, to make us two. 

Live in the peace ; as for myselfe, 
When I am bruised on the shelfe 

Of Time, and show 
My locks behung with frost and snow : 


When with the renme, 
The congh, the ptisick, I consume 
TJnto an almost nothing ; then 
The ages fled I'le call agen : 

And with a teare compare these last 
Lame, and bad times, with those are past, 

While Baucis by, 
My old leane wife, shall kisse it dry : 

And so we'l sit 
By th' fire, foretelling snow and slit. 
And weather by our aches, growne 
Now old enough to be our own. 

True calenders, as Pusse's eare 

Washt oer's to tell what change is neare : 

Then to asswage 
The gripings of the clime by age ; 

I'll oaU my young 
lulus to sing such a song 
I made upon my Julia's brest ; 
And of her blush at such a feast. 

Then shall he read that flowre of mine 
Enclos'd within a christall shrine : 

A primrose next ; 
A piece, then of a higher text ; 

For to beget 
In me a more transcendant heate, 
Than that insinuating fire. 
Which crept into each aged sire, 

When the fair Hellen, from her eyes. 
Shot forth her loving sorceries : 

At which I'le reare 
Mine aged limbs above my chaire ; 


And hearing it, 
Flutter and crow, as in a fit 
Of fresh concupiscence, and cry. 
No lust there's like to poetry. 

Thus frantick-crazie man (God wot) 
I'll, call to mind things half forgot : 

And oft between, 
Repeat the times that I have seen ! 

Thus ripe with tears. 
And twisting my lulus hairs ; 
Doting, I'le weep and say (in truth,) 
Baucis, these, were my sins of youth. 

Then next I'le cause my hopefuU lad, 
(If a wild apple can be had) 

To crown the hearth, 
(Larr thus conspiring with bur mirth,) 

Then to infuse 
Our browner ale iuto the cruse : 
Which sweetly spic't, we'l first carouse 
Unto the genius of the house. 

Then the next health to friends of mine, 
(Loving the brave Burgundian wine,) 

High sons of pith. 
Whose fortunes I have frolickt with : 

Such as co'd well 
Bear up the magick bough, and spel 
And dancing 'bout the mystick thyrse. 
Give up the just applause to verse. 

To those, and then agen to thee, 
We'l drink, my Wickes, untill we be 

Plump as the cherry, 
Though not so fresh, yet full as merry 


As the crickit : 
The untam'd heifer, or the pricket, 
Untill our tongues shall tell our ears, 
W are younger by a score of years. 

Thus, till we see the fire lesse shine 
From th' embers than the kitling's eyne, 

We'l still sit up. 
Sphering about the wassail cup 

To all those times, 
Which gave me honour for my rhimes : 
The cole once spent, we'l then to bed, 
Farre more than night-bewearied. 



WITH how impetuous a career 
Runs out of sight the rapid year ! 
Believe me, Langhorne, tho' we pray. 
Like my good grandame, thrice a day. 
Old age and coughs, and aches and agues, 
In spite of piety will plague us. 
Time, out of memVy has been mad. 
And gallops over good and bad. 
Tityus and Geryon triple fold, 
The Broughton and the Slack of old, 
Felt both alack ! a fatal day ; — 
And are we half as hard as they ? 
Assiduous Charon, quick as thought. 
With ling'ring culls will cram the boat. 
Nor will he bend or bate the least, 
To Dick the squire, or you the priest. 


What tho' you 'scape the wind and rain, 
Nor teaze for gold the fretful mam, 
Ne'er be by grace or sense forsook, 
To cut a purse, or make a book ; 
You soon must quit your cure, to be 
With Sisyphus and Company. 

Ah ! then at last the love-struck swain 
Shall cease of Sylvia to complain ! 
You'll — won't you, think on many a day 
That you and I have langh'd away, 
Of many a smiling social scene. 
Of many a gambol on the green ; 
And look confoundedly askew 
On sooty cypress and dull yew ? 
Indeed if grapes or barley grow, 
Or snipe or woodcock fly below. 
The sight some small relief may be ; 
But not a single trout you'll see. 
" To fish, (you'll cry,) in such a flood ! 

cursed Coccyteau mud ! 
Was it for this I wore my eyes 
In forming artificial flies ? 
Was it for this, that better far 

1 threw my line than J ^y C ^r ? " 

When you are dead, and fair and clear 
Our common sheets of song appear, 
Your son will think they serve to shew 
Your brains and mine were but so-so. 
He'll see how you have slily stole 

From Seed and South your sermons whole ; 
He'll wonder how you could for shame. 
Then shake his head, and do the same. 

" Oentleman's Magadne," AprU, 1762. 



HOW quickly fades the vital flow'r ! 
Alas my friend ! each silent hour 
Steals unperceiv'd away : 
The early joys of blooming yonth, 
Sweet innocence, and dove-ey'd truth, 
Are destin'd to decay. 

Can zeal drear Pluto's wrath restrain ? 
No ! tho' an hourly victim stain 

His hallow'd shrine with blood, 
Tate will recall her doom for none ; 
The sceptred king must leave his throne, 

To pass the Stygian flood. 

In vain, my Parnell, wrapt in ease, 
We shun the merchant-marring seas : 

In vain we fly from wars ; 
In vain we shun th' autumnal blast, 
(The slow Cocytus must be pass'd :) 

How needless are our cares ! 

Our house, our land, our shadowy grove. 
The very mistress of our love. 

Ah me ! we soon must leave. 
Of all our trees, the hated boughs 
Of cypress shall alone difiFuse 

Their fragrance o'er our grave. 

To others shall we then resign 
The num'rous casks of sparkling wine, 
Which, frugal, now we store ; 


With them, a more deserving heir, 
(Is this our labour, this our care ?) 
Shall staia the stucco floor. 

SiE William Jones.i 

(At fowrteen years of age.) 


WHAT Horace says is, 
Eheu fugaces, 
Anui labuntur, Postume, Postume ! 
Tears glide away and are lost to me, lost to me. 
Now when the folks in the dance sport their merry toes, 
Taglionis, and Elslers, Duvernays, and Ceritos, 
Sighing, I murmur, mihi preterites. 

EiOHABD Haeeis Baeham." 

' The great Oriental scholar. 

' In Barham's humorous Correspondence is published the follow- 
ing Horatian epistle, addressed to his friend, Dr. Home : 

" Diffugere nives, redeunt jam gramina campis 5 

The snows are fled, the grass now scarcely damp is ; 

Solvitur acris Hyems, gr^t& vice veris ; 

Stern Winter's gone, the grateful Spring time near is ; 

Ubi Gentium Hume '? 

Is he up in his room ? 

Vel antro sub grate 

Ating potato ? 

In agris est vix 

A making of bricks ? 

Cur non venit ad nrbem, 

Now there's nothing to disturb him. 

Usque ad Londinum, 

Churchyard que PauEnum ? 

Nil mihi rescribas, sed venias ipse, 

Quadrig^ vel omnibus, sobrius vel tipse." 



ALREADY your extensive down 
O'er all the neighb'ring laud has grown, 
And laid whole forests waste : 
And now we see th' encroaching lake 
Almost as large a compass take ; 
And all to found a taste. 

Misguided emulation now, 

The fertile empire of the plough 

To barren show devotes ; 
Or vainly strives some marsh to drain, 
To counterfeit thy wholesome plain, 

Or richest meadow floats. 
Now flow'rs dispos'd in various groups. 
Dislodge those honours of your soups. 

The tasteful rich legumes : 
And raised in mounts, or, sunk in dells, 
Prom artless tufts, or labour'd shells, 

Dispense their strong perfumes. 

How would your friend Sir Godfrey fret ! 
And Pope, in plaintive strains regret 

The days of his Queen Anne ? 
Before you sunk the first ha-ha ; 
And ruling all by forest law, 

This wasting taste began. 

The monarch, worthy Britain's crown, 
Sought not in private fields renown : 

And none by her example. 
Did castles for their porter rear, 
A Chinese pagode for their deer, 

Or for their horse a temple. 


The turf her humble subjects made 
Their lowly seat, beneath the shade 
Of beeches, oaks or birches : 
And to their pious queen they gave 
Whate'er their patriot thrift could save. 
For building fifty churches. 



AINT George's Fields are fields no more. 

The trowel supersedes the plough ; 
Huge inundated swamps of yore, 
Are changed to civic villas now. 

The builder's plank, the mason's hod, 
Wide, and more wide extending still, 

Usurp the violated sod. 

From Lambeth Marsh to Balaam Hill. 

Pert poplars, yew trees, water tubs, 
No more at Clapham meet the eye, 

But velvet lawns, Acacian shrubs. 
With perfume greet the passer by. 

Thy carpets, Persia, deck our floors, 

Chintz curtains shade the polish'd pane : 

Verandas guard the darken'd door. 

Where dunning Phoebus knocks in vain. 

Not thus acquir'd was Gresham's hoard, 
Who founded London's mart of trade ; 

Not such thy life, Grimalkin's lord. 
Who Bow's recalling peal obey'd. 

^ Poet and miscellaneous writer, who wrote among other forgotten 
works, an "Account of the War in India, 1750-1760." He died 1802. 


In Mark or Mincing Lane confin'd, 
In cheerful toil they pass'd the hours ; 

'Twas theirs to leave their wealth behind ; 
To lavish, while we live, is ours. 

They gave no treats to thankless kings ; 

Many their gains, their wants were few ; 
They built no house with spacious wings, 

To give their riches pinions too. 

Yet sometimes, leaving in the lurch 

Sons, to luxurious folly prone. 
Their funds rebuilt the parish church — 

Oh ! pious waste, to us unknown. 

We from our circle never roam. 

Nor ape our sires' eccentric sins ; 
Our charity begins at home. 

And mostly ends where it begins. 

James and Hoeace Smith. 


After the General Election in 1747. 

FOB, quiet, Torke, the sailor cries 
When gathering storms obscure the skies. 
The stars no more appearing ; 
The candidate for quiet prays. 
Sick of the bumpers and huzzas 
Of blest electioneering. 

Who thinks that from the Speaker's chair 
The Sergeant's mace can keep off care, 
Is wondrously mistaken : 


Alas ! he is not half so bless'd, 
As those who've liberty to rest, 

And dine on beans and bacon. 

Why should we then to London run, 
And quit our cheerful country sun, 

For business, dirt and smoke ? 
Can we, by changing place and air. 
Ourselves get rid of, or our care ? 

In troth 'tis all a joke. 

Care climbs proud ships of mightiest force, 
And mounts behind the General's horse. 

Outstrips hussars and pandours ; 
Far swifter than the bounding hind. 
Swifter than clouds before the wind, 

Or Cope before th' Highlanders. 

A man, when once he's safely close. 
Should laugh at all his threat'ning foes, 

Nor think of future evil : 
Each good has its attendant ill ; 
A seat is no bad thing, but still 

Elections are the devil. 

Its gifts, with hand impartial, Heav'n 
Divides : to Orford it was given 

To die in full-blown glory ; 
To Bath indeed a longer date, 
But then with unrelenting hate, 

Pursu'd by Whig and Tory. 

The Gods to you with bounteous hand 
Have granted seats, and parks, and land ; 

Brocades and silks you wear ; 
With claret and ragouts you treat ; 
Six neighing steeds with nimble feet 

Whirl on your gilded car. 


To me they've given a small retreat 
Good port and mntton, best of meat, 

With broad cloth on my shoulders, 
A soul that scorns a dirty job. 
Loves a good rhyme, and hates a snob, 

I mean who an't freeholders. 

SoAME Jentns.' 


Afterwa/rds Lord Teignmouih. 


FOR ease the harass'd seaman prays, 
When equinoctial tempests raise 
The Cape's surrounding wave ; 
WTien hanging o'er the reef he hears 
The cracking mast, and sees or fears. 
Beneath his wat'ry grave. 

For ease the slow Mahratta spoils. 
And hardier Sic erratic toils, 

While both their ease forego ; 
For ease which neither gold can buy. 
Nor robes, nor gems, which oft belie 

The cover'd heart, bestow. 

For neither gold, nor gems combined, 
Can heal the foul or suffering mind. 

Lo ! where their owner lies, 
Perch'd on his couch Distemper breathes ; 
And Care, like smoke, in turbid wreaths, 

Round the gay ceiling flies. 

' This ode has also been attributed to Sir Charles Hanbtiry 


He who enjoys nor covets more 
Than lands his father held before, 
Is of true bliss possess'd : 
Let but his mind nnfetter'd tread, 
Far as the paths of knowledge lead, 
And wise, as well as bless'd. 

ISo fears his peace of mind annoy. 
Lest printed lies his fame destroy, 

Which labor'd years have won ; 
Nor pack'd committees break his rest. 
Nor avarice sends him forth in quest 
Of climes beneath the sun. 

Short is our span ; then why engage 

In schemes, for which man's transient age 

Was ne'er by Fate design'd ? 
Why slight the gifts of Nature's hand ? 
What wanderer from his native land 

E'er left himself behind ? 

The restless thought, and wayward will, 
And discontent, attendiim still. 

Nor quit him while he lives : 
At sea, care follows in the wind ; 
At land, it mounts the pad behind, 

Or with the post-boy drives. 

He who would happy live to-day, 
Must laugh the present ills away. 

Nor think of woes to come ; 
For come they will, or soon or late ; 
Since mix'd at best is man's estate. 

By Heaven's eternal doom. 

To ripen'd age Clive lived renown'd, 
With laos enrich' d, with honors crown'd, 
His valor's well-earn'd meed. 


Too long, alas ! he lived, to hate 
His envied lot ; and died too late 
From life's oppression freed. 

An early death was Elliott's doom,i 
I saw his opening virtues bloom, 

And manly sense unfold. 
Too soon to fade ! I bade the stone 
Record his name 'midst hordes unknown, 

Unknowing what it told. 

To thee perhaps the Pates may give 
(I wish they may, in health to live,) 

Herds, flocks, and fruitful fields ; 
Thy vacant hours in mirth to shine : 
With these, the muse already thine, 

Her present bounties yields. 

For me, O Shore ! I only claim 
To m.erit, not to seek for fame ; 

The good and just to please : 
A state above the fear of want ; 
Domestic love. Heaven's choicest grant, 

Health, leisure, peace and ease. 

■Waeebn Hastings.'' 


To George Gohnan the Yownger. 


THE youth from his indentures freed, 
Who mounts astride the winged steed, 
The Muses' hunt to follow ; 

Mr. Elliott died on Ms way to Nagpore, Oct. 1778. 
Written on his passage fi-om Bengal to England in 1785. 


With, terror eyes tie yawning pit, 
And for a modicum of wit 

Petitions great Apollo. 

For wit, the qiiarto-building wight 
Invokes the Gods ; the jilt in spite 

Eludes the man of letters. 
Wit thro' the wire wove margin glides. 
And all the gilded pomp derides 

Of red morocco fetters. 

Vain is the smart portfolio set. 
The costly inkstand, black as jet. 

The desk of polish'd level ; 
The well shorn pens to use at will ; — 
'Tis no great task to cut a quill, 

To cut a joke's the devil ! 

Happy, for rural business fit, 
Wlio merely tills his mother wit. 

In humble life he settles ; 
Unskill'd in repartee to shine, 
He ne'er exclaims, " descend ye Nine ! " 

But when he plays at skittles. 

They who neglect their proper home, 
To dig for ore in Greece or Rome, 

Are poor Quixotic Vandals ; 
'Twas well enough in needy Goths, 
But why should we, like foolish tooths, 

Buzz round the Koman candles ? 

Care swarms in rivers, roads and bogs. 
It's plagues spring up like Pharaoh's frogs, 

Too numerous to bury ; 
It roams through London streets at large. 
And now bestrides a Lord Mayor's bargCj 

And now a Vanxhall wherry. 


The man who no vertigo feels, 

When borne aloft on Fortune's wheels, 

But at their motion titters ; 
Pitying the sons of care and strife, 
Enjoys the present sweets of life, 

Nor heeds its future bitters. 

Poor Tobin died, alas ! too soon 
Ere with chaste ray his Honey Moon 

Had shone to glad the na,tion ; 
Others, I will not mention who, 
Por many a year may (enbre nous,') 

Outlive their own damnation. 

Who creep in prosie, or soar in rhyme, 
Alike must bow the knee to Time, 

Prom Mas singer to Murphy ; 
And all who flit on Lethe's brink. 
Too weak to swim, alas ! must sink, 

Prom Davenant to Durfey. 

Tour rival Muses, like two wives, 
Assail your pate, and while each strives 

To win you to her quarrel, 
Like Garrick painted by Sir Jos, 
You stand between them, at a loss 

On which to weave the laurel. 

My Muse is of the ostrich sort. 
Her eggs of fortune's gale the sport. 

She in the sand conceals 'em ; 
By no intrusive wanderer found, 
Till watchman Phoebus walks his round 

And with his lamp reveals 'em. 

But should the God's revealing ray. 
Destroy her fragile web to-day. 

She'll spin again to-morrow f 


These trifles ne'er her mind annoy, 
Who never knew a parent's joy, 

Ne'er felt a parent's sorrow. 

James and Hoeace Smith. 


WHEBE halts the Bichmond coach to bait, 
With ears erect and month dilate, 
(Believe it, future ages !) 
I saw the naiads quit the Thames, 
Fishers their nets, and boys their games 
To dive in Cobbett's pages. 

Cobbett, hnzza ! I burn ! I rave ! 
Laws, locks, and Lincoln gaol I brave ; 

Spare, anarch lov'd yet dreaded. 
The bard who hails you tumult's god. 
And lauds your pen, like Hermes' rod, 

Gall-tipp'd and serpent headed. 

With yours, his own, and Horne Tooke's tongues. 
The baronet's exhaustless lungs, 

The dog of hell outwarble ; 
While you his Gorgon vipers wield. 
Back on your master turn the shield, 

And change his heart to marble. 

The cat-o'-nine tails you abuse, 
And Billingsgate each classic muse ; 

Henceforth another cue get. 
The assailant now the Nine assail, 
Each Muse contributing a tail, 

To whip you into Newgate. 


When Jacobins, in reason's trance, 
Ruled, mob on mob, devoted France^ 

Reacting on reaction ; 
Yon battled, tooth and nail for law. 
And hid beneath the lion's paw, 

The cloven foot of faction. 

Hail, Botley Bifrons ! sinuous eel ! 
How shall the Muse your course reveal ? 

In what Pindarics word it ? 
Round like a weather-cook you flit. 
As interest veers, now puffing Pitt, 

And now inflating Burdett. 

E'en Windham, chivalrous no more, 
In your hot water dipp'd his oar, 

And let your torrent turn him ; 
He hymn'd your worth, your virtues sung. 
And licked, with metaphysio tongue. 

The foot ordain'd to spurn him. 

James and Hoeace Smith. 


ON grey goose quills sublime I'll soar, 
To metaphors unreach'd before. 
That scare the vulgar reader : 
With style well form'd from Burke's best books — 
From rules of grammar (e'en Home Tooke's) 
A bold and free seceder. 

' This ode was written in satirical reference to the " Part of a 
Letter to Mr. Fox," by Robert Adair. Tfie reference in the fourth 
stanza is to the charge of Charles Fox having sent Adair to St. 


I whom, dear Fox, you condescend 
To call your Honourable Friend, 

Shall live for everlasting : 
That Stygian gallery I'll quit. 
Where Printers crowd me as I sit 

Half dead with rage and fasting. 

I feel ! the growing down descends, 
Like goose-skin, to my fingers' ends — 

Each nail becomes a feather : 
My cropp'd head waves with sudden plumes. 
Which erst (like Bedford's, or his groom's) 

Unpowder'd, braved the weather. 

I mount, I mount into the sky, 

" Sweet bird " to Petersburg I'll fly ; 

Or, if you bid, to Paris ; 
Fresh missions of the Fox and Ooose 
Successful treaties may produce ; 

Though Pitt in all miscarries. 

Scotch, English, Irish Whigs shall read 
The pamphlets, letters, odes I breed, 

Charm'd with each bright endeavour : 
Ala/rmists tremble at my strain, - 
E'en Pitt, made candid by champaign, 

Shall hail Adair " the clever." 

Petersburg to counteract the measures of Pitt's Government, first 
broached in Burke's letter ou the conduct of the minority. 

Note, " Anti-Jacobin." — " The following ode was dropped into the 
letter-box in our publisher's window. From its title we were led to 
imagine there was some mistake in the business, and that it was 
meant to have been conveyed to Mr. Wright's neighbour, Mr. Debrett, 
whom we recollect to have been the publisher of the ' Half of a 
Letter ' to the same gentleman, which occasioned so much noise (of 
horse laughing) in the world. Our politics certainly do not entitle 
us to the honourable distinction of being made the channel for com- 
municating such a production to the public. But, for our parts, as 
we are not at war with genius, on whatever side we find it, we are 
happy to give this poem the eitrliest place in our paper." 


Though criticism assail my name, 
And luckless blunders blot my fame, 

O ! make no needless bustle ; 
As vain and idle it would be 
To waste one pitying thought on me, 
As to " unplumb a Russell." » 

Ellis, oe J. H. Feeee. 
" Anti-JacoUn," No. 12, Jan. 29. 




HT for your husband do you mourn. 

And why despair of his return ? 
Why, Molly, all this whining ? 

' Note, " Anti- Jacobin." — " In the ' Part of a Letter ' which was 
published by Mr. Kobert Adair, in answer to Mr. Burke's ' Letter 
to the D. of B.,' nothing is so remarkable as the studious imitation 
of Mr. Burke's style. . . . But imitators are liable to be led strangely 
astray. Mr. Burke, in one of his publications, had talked of the 
French ' unplumbing the dead in order to destroy the living,' — by 
which he intended, without doubt, not metaphorically, but literally, 
' stripping the dead of their leaden, coffins, and then mahlng them (not 
the dead, but the coffins) into buUets,' — a circumstance perfectly 
notorious at the time the book was written. 

" But this does not satisfy our Author. He determines to retort 
Mr. Burke's own words upon him ; and unfortunately ' reaching at 
a metaphor,' where Mr. Burke only intended a fact, he falls into the 
little mistake of transmuting by a stroke of his pen the illustrious 
head of the house of Russell into a metal, to which it is not for us to 
say how near or how remote his affinity may possibly have been. 
He writes thus: — 'If Mr. Burke had been content with "un- 
plumbing" a dead Bussell, and hewing him (observer-^not the coffin 
— but him, the old dead Bussell himself) into grape and canister to 
sweep down the whole generation of his descendants, &c., &e.' " 



The next spring winds shall bring the youth 
Grlowing with love, and full of truth. 
For absence leave repining. 

His ship with the rich freight she bears, 
Shall safe arrive at Wapping Stairs, 

And he with fond embraces, 
Shall clasp yon eager in his arms. 
With joy shall wonder at your charms, 

Each moment find new graces. 

Tho' now upon the Guinea coast 
Ev'n now in thought of thee he's lost. 

And while on thee he's thinking, 
He breathes a melancholy sigh, 
Letting the glass of punch go by, 

. Forgets his turn of drinking. 

In vain his mates his grief would move, 
And bid him take another love, 

And think no more of Molly ; 
That constant truth, and faithful vows. 
Made by a sailor to his spouse, 

Were all a jest and folly. 

In vain, in vain, he hears no more 

Than rocks when winds and waters roar : 

'Tis madness all and folly ; 
True as his needle to his pole. 
His constant heart and faithful soul 

Remain still fix'd on Polly. 

Ah ! Polly then with equal love 
Thy plighted faith and passion prove, 

Show how much honour's in you 
With all his art, with all his care, 
The captain of the man of war 

Does all he can to win you. 


Tho' none can sing a merrier song', 
To none more pleasing guiles belong, 

Ah ! listen not, but fly him ; 
And tho' he vows, and mourns his pains, 
And calls thee cruel, and complains. 

Still more and more deny him. 

" Gentleman's Magazine," Jmie, 1738. 



WHILST my soul's eye beheld no light 
But what stream'd from thy gracious sight. 
To me the world's greatest king 
Seeiti'd but some little vulgar thing. 

God. Whilst thou prov'dst pure ; and that in thee 
I could glass all my Deity : 
How glad did I from Heaven depart 
To find a lodging in thy heart ! 

(SomZ. Now Fame and Greatness bear the sway, 
('Tis they that hold my prison's key :) 
For whom my soul would die, might she 
Leave them her immortalitie. 

God. I and some few pure souls conspire, 
And burn both in a mutual fire. 
For whom I'd die once more, ere they 
Should miss of Heaven's eternal day. 

Soul. But Lord ! what if I turn again, 
And with an adamantine chain. 
Lock me to thee ? What if I chase 
The world away to give thee place ? 


God. Then though these souls in whom I joy 
Are seraphim, thou but a toy, 
A foolish toy, yet once more I 
Would with thee live, and for thee die. 

From " BeliqwuB WoUomiance." 



WHILE at my house in Fleet Street once yon lay, 
How merrily, dear Sir, time pass'd away ! 
While I partook your wine, your wit and mirth, 
I was the happiest creature on God's yearth.^ 

Congreve. While in your early days of reputation, 
You for blue garters had not such a passion ; 
While yet you did not use, (as now your trade is,) 
To drink with noble lords, and toast their ladies ; 
Thou, Jacob Tonson, wert, to my conceiving. 
The ohearfuUest, best, honest fellow living. 

Tonson. I'm in with Captain Vanbrugh at the 
A most sweet-natur'd gentleman, and pleasant ; 
He writes your comedies, draws schemes and models. 
And builds Duke's houses npon very odd hills : 
For him, so much I dote on him, that I, 
If I was sure to go to Heaven, would die. 

Congreve. Temple ^ and Delaval are now my party. 
Men that are torn Merowrio both quam Marte ; 
And tho' for them I scarce shall go to Heaven, 
Yet I can drink with them six nights in seven. 

' The elder Tonson's pronunciation. 

^ Sir Eichard Temple, afterwards Lord Cobham. 


Tonson. What if from Van's dear arms I should 
And once more warm my bunnians at yonr fire ; 
If I to Bow Street should invite you home, 
And set a bed up in my dining room, 
Tell me, dear Mr. Congreve, would you come ? 

Gongr&ve. Tho' the gay sailor and the gentle knight 
Were ten times more my joy and heart's delight ; 
Tho' civil persons they, you ruder were. 
And had more humours than a dancing bear ; 
Tet for your sake I'd bid 'em both adieu. 
And live lind die, dear Cob, with only you. 

"N". EowE, 




WHILE heedless of yonr birth and name, 
For pow'r you bartered future fame, 
On that auspicious day. 
Of kings I reign'd supremely blest : 
Not Hastings rul'd the plunder'd East 
With more despotic sway. 

Fitt. When only on my favoured head 
Tour smiles their royal influence shed. 

Then was the son of Chatham 
The nation's pride, the public care, 
Pitt and Prerogative their pray'r, 

While we, Sir, both laugh'd at 'em. 


King. Jenky, I own, divides my heart, 
Skill'd in each deep and secret art 

To keep mj Commons down : 
His views his principles are mine ; 
For these I'd willingly resiga 

My kingdom and my crown, 

Titi. As much as for the public weal. 
My anxious bosom burns with zeal 

For pious parson Wyv — 11 ; 
For him I'll fret, and fame and spout, 
Go every length — except go out, 

For that's to me the Devil ! 

King. What if our sinking cause to sa,ve, 
We both our jealous strife should waive 

And act our former farce on : 
If I to Jenky were more stern, 
Would you then, generously turn 

Tour back upon the parson ? 

Titt. Tho' to support his patriot plan 
I'm pledg'd as Minister and Man, 

This storm I hope to weather ; 
And since your Royal will is so, 
Reforms and the Reformers too 

May all be damn'd together ! 

" Griticisms on the RolKad," 1785.^ 

' A series of political satires in the form of a pretended review of 
an imaginary epic poem, tlie first of which, published in a London 
newspaper in 1 784, was devoted to a criticism on Colonel (afterwards 
Lord) KoUe. Among the authors were Dr. Lawrence, General Fitz- 
patrick, R. Tickell, Joseph Eichardson, Lord John Townsend, George 
Ellis, Sir R. Adair, General Burgoyne, Hare, Reid, Bate Dudley, 
Brummel, Bosoawen, Pearce, and the Bishop of Ossory. 




HARK ! the merry bugles sound, 
Ev'ry heart to lighten : 
Beat the drums, His Highness comes, 
The Prince returns to Brighton ! 

Now for fStes and routs a score, 

Prom'nades, balls outridings ; 
Bloomfield in a chaise and four. 

Proclaim the joyful tidings. 

Crowds of gazers walk the Steyne, 

Prim mammas and misses ; 
Such were seen, when Greece again 

Beheld her lost Ulysses : 

Doctor T ' a motion makes — 

Let ev'ry beau and belle come, 
And join his pranks, a vote of thanks, 
To bid His Highness welcome ! 

Pierce a cask of gen'rous wine. 

Claret, port or sherry ; 
Drink his health in bumpers nine, 

'Pore George, we will be merry ! 

Bacchus gay shall rule the day. 

Unless our rev'rend vicar, 
A rosy Put, has pierc'd the butt, 

And drank np all the liquor. 

' Tiemey. 


Call Pitzherbert, ancient fair ! 

From her Cytherean border, 
Bid the sybil bind her hair, 

And put her charms in order : 
Jersey to the feast invite, 

For snch a painted beldam, 
At fifty six, on this side Styx, 

We surely see but seldom. 

Margate, boast thy lofty pier. 

Thy cliff and castle, Dover ; 
Bath, thy fashionable cheer. 

And many a Bond Street rover ! 

Brighton, highly-favour'd spot ! 

Shall still outshine the million ; 
Happy since she boasts a Prince, 

To grace her long pavilion. 

Arthur, valor's fav'rite son. 

Bold, intrepid, brave, he 
Cudgels Frenchmen till they run. 

And makes them cry " peccavi ! " 

Ool'nel Bloomfield, stout and tall, 

(Was e'er a hero prouder ?) 
Though his head escape the ball. 

It does not miss the powder. 
May old age, a tyrant fell ! 

That fills the bones with dryness, 
Vanquish'd by some magic spell. 

Politely pass your Highness. 

Long may Britain own your sway ; 

While we, of merry sort all, 
Shall wish our Prince, as Horace gay. 

And, like his strains, immortal. 

George Daniel. 


ODE XV., BOOK ni. 

DEAE Chloria, at an age like thine 
To dance, coquet, and dress so fine, 
And ape such youthful airs. 
Might shook a taste not over nice, 
So prithee take a friend's advice, 
Repent, and say thy pray'rs. 

Give o'er thy light fantastic tricks. 
For coquetry at fifty six 

Credulity disarms ! 
Forswear the company of beaux, 
Nor thus to ridicule expose 

The winter of thy charms. 

No beauty hast thou left to boast 
Though twenty years a reigning toast, 

By coxcombs pledg'd aloud ; 
Retreat in time, give others room, 
No nostrum can restore thy bloom ; 
Haste, Chloris ! nor defraud the tomb, 

Death courts thee for a shroud. 

"What sprightly Phoebe, frank and free. 
So well becomes, sits ill on thee 

Thou folly's doting tool ; 
Leave off thy pert affected prate. 
Thy childish lisp, thy mincing gait, 
And blush that vanity, so late, 

Should make thee play the fool. 

Ah ! roll no more the leering eye 
At ev'ry fop that flutters by. 
Thy ogling days are past : 


And mark the moral of my strain, 
That beautjj though she proudly reign, 
Must be dethrou'd at last. 

Geoege Daniel, 


BedniCated to the Bight Hon, Wm. PuUeney. 


PIERCE the cask, o'erspread with mould. 
Let the mellow wine have vent ; 
Generous grown, by growing old. 
Source of joy, and sweet content. 

Various are th' effects of wine. 

Its furious rage, kind Heaven, avert ; 

To softer mirth let it incline, 
And all the force of wit exert. 

Wise Socrates in days of yore. 

This way would unbend his soul ; 

And Oato, tho' of temper sour. 
Was often pleasant o'er a bowl. 

Warm'd by wine, all bounds o'ershot, 
Slavish cow'rds from fear can break ; 

Bribes, places, pensions, quite forgot, 

Ev'n courtiers then, the truth can speak. 

Spread the tables, heap the fire. 
To full delight for once give way, 

Let wine our lengthen'd joys inspire, 
'Till Phoebus brings us back the day. 

The Atjthoe oj " The Duel," 



A Canticle. 


WHITHER dost thou whorry me, 
Bacchus, being full of thee ? 
This way, that way, that way, this. 
Here and there a fresh love is. 
That doth like me, this doth please ; 
Thus a thousand mistresses 
I have now; yet I alone, 
Having all, injoy not one. 



WHITHER, O Bacchus, in thy train, 
Dost thou transport thy votary's brain 
With sudden inspiration ? 
Where dost thou bid me quaff my wine, 
Anid toast new measures to combine 
The Great and Little Nation ? 

' This ode, written in the character of Charles Howard, eleventh 
Duke of Norfolk, refers to his famous toast, " Our Sovereign's health, 
the Majesty of the People," proposed by him at a banquet at the 
Crown and Anchor Tavern, on Charles Pox's birthday, 24th Jan- 
uary, 1798. For this toast he was deprived of all his offices. 

Note, " Anti -Jacobin." — " We are indebted for the following imita- 
tion of one of the most beautiful odes of Horace to an unknown hand. 
All that we can say is, that it came to us in a blank cover, sealed 
with a ducal coronet, and that it appears evidently to be the produo 
tion of a mind not more classical than convivial." 


Say, in what tavern I shall raise 
My nightly voice in Charley's praise, 

And dream of future glories, 
When Fox, with salutary sway, 
(Terror the order of the day) 

Shall reign o'er King and Tories ? 

My nightly feelings must have way ! 
A toast I'll give — a thing I'll say. 

As yet unsaid by any, — 
"Our Sov'reign Lord!" — let those who donbt 
My honest meaning, hear me out — 

." His Majesty — ^the Many ! " 

Plain folks may be surprised and stare 
As much surprised as Bob Adair 

At Russia's wooden houses ; 
And Russian snows that lie so thick ; 
And Russian boors ' that daily kick. 

With barbarous foot, their sponsep. 

What joy, when drunk, at midnight hour, 
To stroll through Covent Garden bower. 

Its various charms exploring ; 
And, midst its shrubs and vacant stalls. 
And proud Piazzas crumbling walls, 

Hear trulls and watchmen snoring ! 

' Note, "Auti Jacobin." 

" Et nive candidum 
Thraoen, ac pede barbarc 
Lustratem Khodopen. 

There appears to be some little mistake in the translator here. 
Khodope is not, as he seems to imagine, the name of a woman, but 
of a mountain, and not in Kussia. Possibly, however, the translator 
may have been misled by the inaccuracy of the traveller here al- 
luded to." 


Parent of wine, and gin, and beer, 
The nymphs of Billingsgate you cheer ; 

Naiads robust and hearty ; 
As Brooks's chairmen fit to wield 
Their stout oak bludgeons in the field, 

To aid our virtuous party. 

Mortals ! no common voice you hear ! 
Militia Colonel, Premier Peer, 

Lieutenant of a County ! 
I speak high things ! yet, God of wine, 
For thee, I fear not to resign 

These gifts of Royal bounty. 

Geoegb Canning. 

" Anii-Jacohin," No. 18; March 12, 1798. 


AGAIN" ! new tumults in my breast ? 
Ah, spare me, Venus ! let me, let me rest ! 

I am not now, alas ! the man 
is in the gentle reign of my Queen Anne. 

Ah ! sound no more thy soft alarms, 
Nor circle sober fifty with thy charms ! 

Mother too fierce of dear desires ! 
Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires. 

To number five direct your doves. 
There spread round Murray all your blooming loves ; 

Noble and young, who strikes the heart 
With every sprightly, every decent part ; 

Equal, the injured to defend, 
To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend. 

He, with a hundred arts refined. 
Shall stretch thy conquests over half the kind : 


To him each rival shall submit, 
Make but his riches equal to his wit. 

Then shall thy form the marble grace, 
(Thy Grecian form,) and Chloe lend the face ; 

His house, embosom'd in the grove, 
Sacred to social life and social love, 

Shall glitter o'er the pendent green. 
Where Thames reflects the visionary scene ; 

Thither the silver sounding lyres 
Shall call the smiling Loves and young Desires ; 

There every Grace and Muse shall throng. 
Exalt the dance, or animate the song ; 

There youths and nymphs, in concert gay 
Shall hail the rising, close the parting day. 

With me, alas ! those joys are o'er; 
For me the vernal garlands bloom no more. 

Adieu ! fond hope of mutual fire, 
The still believing, still renew'd desire ; 

Adieu ! the heart-expanding bowl, 
And all the kind deceivers of the soul ! 

But why ? ah, tell me, ah, too dear ! 
Steals down my cheek the involuntary tear ? 

Why words so flowing, thoughts so free, 
Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee ? 

Thee, dress'd in Fancy's airy beam, 
Absent I follow through the extended dream : 

Now, now I cease, I clasp thy charms. 
And now you burst (ah, cruel !) from my arms ! 

And swiftly shoot along the Mall, 
Or softly glide by the Canal ; 

Now shown by Cynthia's silver ray, 
And now on rolling waters snatch'd away. 




HE that would great in science grow, 
Uy whom bright virtue is ador'd, 
At first must be content to know 
An humble roof, an homely board. 

With want and rigid college laws 

Let him, inur'd betimes, comply ; 
Firm to religion's sacred cause. 

The learned combat let him try ; 

Let him her envied praises tell, 

And all his eloquence disclose, 
The fierce endeavours to repel 

Arid still the tumult of her foes. 

Him early form'd, and season'd young. 

Subtle opposers soon will fear, 
And tremble at his artful tongue. 

Like Parthians at the Roman spear. 

Grim Death, th' inevitable lot, 

Which fools and cowards strive to fly, 

Is with a noble pleasure sought 
By him who dares for truth to die. 

With purest lustre of her own 

Exalted virtue ever shines. 
Nor, as the vulgar smile or frown, 

Advances now, and now declines. 

A glorious and immortal prize. 
She on her hardy son bestows. 


She shews him heaven, and bids him rise, 
Though pain, and toil, and death oppose : 
With lab'ring flight he wings th' obstructed way, 
Leaving both common souls and common clay. 

William Titlby. 
From " Dodsley's Collection." 




WHO strives to mount Parnassus hill, 
And thence poetic laurels bring. 
Must first acquire due force and skill, 
Must fly with swan's or eagle's wing. 

Who Nature's treasures would explore, 
Her mysteries and arcana know ; 

Must high as lofty Newton soar. 

Must stoop as delving Woodward low. 

Who studies ancient laws and rites. 
Tongues, arts, and arms, and history, 

Must drudge like Selden, days and nights, 
And in the endless labor die. 

Who travels in religious jars, 

(Truth mixed with error, shades with rays,) 
Like Whiston, wanting pyx or stars, 

In ocean wide or sinks or strays. 

But grant our hero's. hope, long toil 
And comprehensive genius crown, 

AH sciences, all arts his spoil, 

Tet what reward, or what renown ? 


Envy innate in vulgar souls, 

Envy steps in and stops his rise ; 
Envy with poison'd tarnish fouls 

His lustre, and his worth decries. 

He lives inglorious or in want, 

To college and old books confined ; 
Instead of learn' d, he's call'd pedant. 
Dunces advanced, he's left behind : 
Yet left content, a genuine stoic he. 
Great without patron, rich without South Sea. 

RiCHAED Bbntlet, D.D.' 


THE youth, whose birth the sisters twain 
Who o'er the sock and buskin reign, 
View with propitious eye ; 
Will at their altars always serve. 
Will never from their dictates swerve. 
Their slave will live and die. 

Blest in his lot, for other things. 

The pride of wealth, the pow'r of kings, 

He offers up no pray'rs ; 
Heroes, unenvying can see. 
Not Prussia's king desires to be, 

Or any king — but theirs. 

The rapid steed he'll ne'er bestride 
With lords for wagers proud to ride, 
Newmarket plains adorning ; 

' " The mighty scholiast, whose unweary'd pains 
Made Horace dull, and humbled Maro's strains." — roPE, 


At Arthur's he takes no delight, 
To pass at dice the sleepless night. 
And be -undone by morning. 

In senates be seeks not to sit, 
And hear, amazed, persuasive Pitt 

Govern the high debate ; 
In Westminster's long-sounding hall 
He ne'er expects a Serjeant's call, 

Nor hopes to rival Pratt, 

Though ministers can places give 
To those who in their creed believe, 

No such he puts his trust in ; 
Content, in tatters though he goes. 
Content to want a pair of shoes. 

So he but wear the buskin. 

Him, if his sire to mercer binds. 

He gives the indentures to the winds. 

Disdaining to sell camblet; 
Awaj he hies to Drury Lane, 
Calls his old father " Royal Dane ", 

And thinks himself Prince Hamlet. 

Where Garrick with judicious art 
Charms ev'ry ear, wins ev'ry heart. 

And acts like one inspir'd ; 
There the fond youth puts in his claim. 
Aspires to reach his mighty fame. 

And be, like him admir'd. 

Like him, whose skill upon the stage 
Can make the dullest scenes engage. 

And thousands come to hear 'em; 

He e'en to s could spirit give, 

Nine tedious nights could make them live. 

Without him who could bear 'em. 


Full many a youth and many a maid, 
Whose names in playhouse bills display'd, 

Shine proudly through the town ; 
Their tragic rage, their comic ease 
Derive from him, and if they please. 
They please from him alone. 

R. B. 
" GmtlemoM's Magaevm," July, 1 762. 


Late Lord Mayor of Dublin, 1731. 


PATRON of the tuneful throng, 
! too nice and too severe ! 
Think not that my country song 

Shall displease thy honest ear. 
Chosen strains I proudly bring, 

Which the Muses' sacred choir, 
When they gods and heroes sing, 

Dictate to th' harmonious lyre. 
Ancient Homer, princely bard ! 

Just precedence still maintains, 
With sacred rapture still are heard 

Theban Pindar's lofty strains, 
Still the old triumphant song, 

Which, -when hated tyrants fell. 
Great Alceeus boldly sung. 

Warms, instructs, and pleases well. 
Nor has Time's all darkening shade 

In obscure oblivion press'd 
What Anacreon laugh'd and play'd j 

Gay Anacreon, drunken priest ! 


Gentle Sappho, love-sick Muse, 

Warms tte heart with amorous fire ; 
Still her tenderest notes infuse ; 

Melting rapture, soft desire. 
Beauteous Helen, young and gay. 

By a painted fopling won, 
Went not first, fair nymph, astray. 

Fondly pleased to be undone. 
Nor young Teucer's slaughtering bow, 

Nor bold Hector's dreadful sword. 
Alone the terrors of the foe, 

Sow'd the field with hostile blood. 
Many valiant chiefs of old 

Greatly lived, and died before 
Agamemnon, Grecian bold, 

Waged the ten years famous war. 
Bat their names unsung, unwept. 

Unrecorded, lost and gone. 
Long in endless night have slept, 

And shall now no more be known. 
Virtue, which the poet's care 

Has not well consign'd to fame 
Lies, as in the sepulchre, 

Some old king, without a name. 
But, O Humphrey, great and free 

While my tuneful songs are read. 
Old forgetful Time on thee 

Dark oblivion ne'er shall spread 
When the deep cut notes shall fade 

On the mouldering Parian stone, 
On the brass no more be read 

The perishing inscription ; 
Forgotten all the enemies. 

Envious G — ns cursed spite, 
And P^ — I's derogating lies, 


Lost and sunk in Stygian night ; 
Still thy labour and thy care, 

What for Dublin thou hast done, 
In full lustre shall appear, 

And outshine th' unclouded sun. 
Large thy mind, and not untried, 

For Hibemia now doth stand, 
Through the calm or raging tide. 

Safe conducts the ship to land. 
Falsely we call the rich man great, 

He is only so that knows, 
His plentiful or small estate 

Wisely to enjoy and use. 
He in wealth or poverty, 

Fortune's power alike defies ; 
And felsehood and dishonesty, 

More than death abhors and flies ; 
Flies from death ! no, meets it brave, 

When the suffering so severe 
May from dreadful bondage save 

Clients, friends, or country dear. 
This the sovereign man, complete ; 

Hero; patriot; glorious; free; 
Rich and wise ; and good and great ; 

Generous Humphry, thou art he ! 



THC born where Devon's hills arise. 
Where tempests sweep along the skies. 
And' spoil the face of day : 
Yet shall this verse in future times. 
Be read with those of happier climes. 
Climes where the Muses stray. 


Tho' Milton's brows with bays we twine, 
And style him wonderful ! divine ! 

Th' immortal, and the bard ! 
Tet Pope with ev'ry grace replete, 
In sense and harmony com,plete 

Still claims onr just regard. 

Still Dryden's nervous numbers charm, 
Equal, majestic, full, and warm. 

He bears his fire along : 
By turns the various verse he tries, 
And bids each passion fall or rise. 

Just as he shifts the song. 

Nor even Waller we disdain, 

Nor Cowley's pensive moral strain. 

Nor Shakespeare's magic art ; 
Shakespeare, like Sophocles, sublime, 
Subdues the soul, in spite of time, 

And searches ev'ry heart ! 

Sedley, tho' loose, and light as air. 
Still cheers the gay, and fires the fair. 

So free his fancy roves ! 
Behn breathes her love-sighs still around. 
Still from her harp the notes resound. 

Soft as the down of doves. 

Nor gentle Bosamond alone, 
Admir'd the tinsel of a throne. 

Or felt th' enliv'ning glow : 
Nor first the desp'rate Henry made 
The pointed pike a palisade. 

To stop th' impetuous foe. 

Britain had felt the hand of war. 
Before she saw the Julian star, 
Within her regions rise : 


Brave Caractacus did no more, 
Than many men had done before, 

To win bright honour's prize. 

Before bold Boadicea became 
Th' avenger of a daughter's fame, 

The scourge of lawless lust: 
Before great Alfred wore the crown, 
Liv'd others of as much renown. 

As noble, wise, and just. 

But all in sad oblivion sleep ; 

No muse had they their worth to weep, 

Or to record their lot ; 
In vain they fought, in vain they bled ; 
Their names unsung, their acts unread, 

They died, and are forgot. 

Vice fares like virtue in the grave ; 
The master there is like the slave ; 

ISo characters remain : 
No marks of all the sons of men, 
Unless sage history lends her pen. 

Or poetry her strain. 

Then let me not leave thee to lie 
In silence and obscurity, 

My patron and my friend ! 
Bat let the God of verse inspire 
My bosom now with all his fire, 

Thy worth to recommend ! 

With steady head, with tender heart, 
With conduct void of fraud or art. 

With temper fine and free, 
You seem in ev'ry scene the same, 
Nor fortune court, nor fortune blame. 

But judge as ought to be. 


Discerning, nncorrupt, and bold, 
Unaw'd by power, unhurt by gold, 

That tamer of the mind : 
Deceitful av'rice shall no more 
Ensnare the rich, or crush the poor, 

While you befriend mankind. 

Nor yet for once you act aright, 
Or steal like meteors, on the sight. 

That glare and pass away : 
But constant, equal, good and true, 
You charm alike at ev*ry view. 

And charm alike each day. 

Humanity shall boast her son, 
,Shall tell the triumphs he has won. 

The wretched he has blest : 
Shall tell how oft the lenient care 
Hath sooth'd the terrors of despair. 

And set the soul at rest. 

Should Fortune from her flowing hand 
Increase your wealth, enrich your land. 

And pour her gifts profuse : 
Absurd 'twould be if we should call 
You happy, tho' possess'd of all, 
Without a will to use. 

He only feels the joy sincere 
Who acts with moderation here, 

Unsway'd by lore or hate ; 
Who wisely uses what is giv'n ; 
Or bravely bears the will of heav 'n ; 

Resign'd in ev'ry state. 

Who dreads not death so much as shame ; 
Who stands unsully'd in his fame ; 
Uncheck'd in virtue's race : 


Sixch, STioh a one is not afraid 
To perish in his country's aid, 

Or share his friend's disgrace. 
From the New FovncHing Hospital for Wit. 


WHILE blooming youth, and gay delight 
Sit on thy rosy cheeks oonfest, 
Thou hast, my dear, undoubted right. 
To triumph o'er this destin'd breast. 
My reason bends to what thy eyes ordain : 
For I was born to love, and you to reign. 

But would you meanly thus rely 

On power, you know I must obey ? 
Exert a legal tyranny ; 

And do an ill, because you may ? 
Still must I thee, as atheists Heaven, adore ; 
Not see thy mercy, and yet dread thy power ? 

Take heed, my dear, youth flies apace ; 

As well as Cupid, Time is blind : 
Soon must those glories of thy face 
The fate of vulgar beauty find : 
The thousand loves, that arm thy potent eye, 
Must drop their quivers, flag their wings, and die. 

' It is rather a reflection perhaps upon Prior's originality to class 
this charming ode as an imitation of Horace ; still the sentiment of 
the Ode ad Ligurinum is so clearly apparent in the fourth and fifth 
stanzas, that I have not thought it unsuitable to give it a place in 
this collection. — Ed. 


Then wilt thou sigh, when in each frown, 

A hateful wrinkle more appears ; 
And putting peevish humours on, 
Seems but the sad effect of years : 
Kindness itself too weak a charm will prove, 
To raise the feeble fires of aged love. 

Foro'd compliments and formal bows 
Will show thee just above neglect : 
The heat with which thy lover glows. 
Will settle into cold respect : 
A talking dull platonic I shall turn ; 
Learn to be civU, when I cease to burn. 

Then shun the ill, and know, my dear, 

Eandness and constancy will prove 
The only pillars fit to bear 

So vast a weight as that of love. 
If thou canst wish to make my flames endure. 
Thine must be very fierce and very pure. 

Haste, Oelia, haste, while youth invites. 

Obey kind Cupid's present voice : 
Fill e.v'ry sense with soft delights. 
And give thy soul a loose to joys : 
Let millions of repeated blisses prove. 
That thou all kindness art, and I all love. 

Be mine, and only mine ; take care 

Thy looks, thy thoughts, thy dreams to guide 
To me alone : nor come so far 
As liking any youth beside : 
What men e'er court thee, fly 'em and believe, 
They're serpents all, and thou the tempted Eve. 

So shall I court thy dearest truth, 
When beauty ceases to engage ; 


So thinking on thy charming youth, 

I'll love it o'er again in age ; 
So time itself our raptures shall improve, 
While still we wake to joy, and live to love- 

M. Peioe. 


CHLOB, my most tender care, 
Always coy, and always fair, 
Should unwish'd for languor spread 
O'er that beauteous white and red ; 
Should these locks, that sweetly play 
Down these shoulders, fall away. 
And that lovely bloom, that glows 
Fairer than the fairest rose. 
Should it fade, and leave thy face 
Spoil'd of every killing grace ; 
Should your glass the charge betray, 
Thus, my fair, you'd weeping say, 
" Cruel gods ! does beauty fade ?" 
Now warm desires my breast invade ; 
And why, while blooming youth did flow 
Was this heart as cold as snow ? 

Alexandee Conninqham.* 


LTCE, at length my vows are heard 
My vows so oft to heaven preferr'd ; 
Welcome thy silver'd hairs ! 
In vain thy affectation gay. 
To hide the manifest decay. 
In vain thy youthful airs. 

Editor of an edition of " Horace " published at the Hague 1721. 


If still thy cheeks preserve a blush, 
With heat of wine, not youth, they flush, 

Unamiable stain ! 
If still thou warblest, harsh the note. 
When trembling age shakes in the throat 

Th' involuntary strain. 

Thinkst thou can these my love prolong? 
(Ungrateful blush ! untunefnl song !) 

Or rival Hebe's charms ? 
Hebe melodious, Hebe fair, 
For judgment swells the rapt'rous air, 

For youth her blushes warms. 

The rosy cheek, the forehead smooth, 
Those native ornaments of youth, 

Once lost, are lost for aye. 
No art can smooth, no paint repair 
The furrow'd face ; no diamond's glare 

Give lustre to decay. 

What now of all, vrhich once was thine, 
Feature, complexion, mien divine, 

Remains the sense to charm ? 
Why now command they not my love ? 
Once could they — even though Chloe strove 

Their empire to disarm. 

Chloe ! — alas, thou much lov'd name ! 
Thou, full of beauty, full of fame, 

Foundst an untimely urn ! 
While Lyce, reft of every grace 
T'enrioh the mind, t'adorn the face, 
Still lives, the public scorn. 

Thomas Sewaed, M.A.,^ 

From Dodsley'g Collection. 

' Divine and poet. He was the father of Anna Seward the poetess. 


Inscribed to His Grace, the Duke of Dorset. 

THE parson's blest, whose living clear 
Brings him five hundred pounds a year : 
(Old time might tell you, if he vf ould, 
When Bishoprieks were scarce so good ; 
And prove, if Walcott's bill had past, 
They'd scarce be half so good at last.) 

Snug in his parsonage, at ease, 
He chats ; he studies ; or he plays ; 
Landlord, himself — the glebe's his own ; 
He pays no rent ; he fears no dun ; 
And if no plough his pastures see, 
The parish plows — and why should he? 

Let the drum beat ! the trumpet sound ! 

His lot is cast in peaceful ground : 

Let the winds rage ! the waters roar ! 

His foot is safely fixed on shore. 

From courts, episcopal or lay. 

Wisely he keeps his steps away : 

If or envies, in his easy chair, 

The twelve month's pride of my Lord May'r. 

To other joys his thoughts incline : 
Gently he trails the curling vine ; 
Marks if yon peach unfruitful spread, 
And buds a better in its stead ; 
Or, wUdly scatter'd thro' the vale, 
Hears the cows lowing for the pail ; 
Or leaves his plunder'd hive to mourn ; 
Or sees his future mutton shorn. 


In Autumn, when his orchards shed 
Their ripen'd treasures round his head, 
How pleas'd the gen'rous pulp he tries ; 
How w-ell the flowing vat supplies ! 
The juice of his own grafts refines, 
And makes it vie with Gallic wines ! 
Nectareous juice ! that might aspire 
To treat his bishop, or his squire ! 

Beneath an oak, what need he spread 
His limbs ? or make the grass his bed ? 
Won't cushions in his arbour plac'd 
Invite to study ? or to rest ? 
Friend of his solitude, the dove 
Cooes from the depth of yonder grove : 
His noisy shores if Lifiy beats, 
Echo the soften'd sound repeats ; 
And penn'd, as gentle murmurs creep, 
His sermons must invite to sleep. 

When frost the struggling earth enchains. 
And snow's white mantle spreads the plains ; 
The leaden death he points aright, 
Shortning the giddy woodcock's flight. 
The wily fox if hounds pursue, 
Or keep the trembling puss in view, 
He mounts his grey, in sober sort, 
And free from falls, enjoys the sport ; 
Safe on some spot of rising ground, 
His eye surveys the country round ; 
Catches each double of the chase ; 
Sees, when her pantings thick encrease ; 
Then spurs his willing steed, to share 
The glory — and secure the hare. 

Thus easy, need hispassions rove ? 
Or what has he to do with love ? 


But, if a chaste and tender wife 

(Some Kitty copied to the life ; 

Just snch as she, when Fortune clear 

Winds up the bottom of the year; 

And hope of plenty takes the part 

Of her just, frugal, gen'rous heart,) 

When he returns from riding round 

Chill'd with the tempest, or half drown'd ; 

Hastes, with each prating girl and boy. 

To meet him with a kiss of joy ; 

Fans the brisk fire ; relieves his toil, — 

And gives his guests a welcome smile ; 

Helps round her unbought — boil'd and roast ; 

And urges free the temp'rate toast ; 

Who would not find an higher feast 

In one such joint of honest taste, 

Than all the pamp'ring pride of books ? 

And all the masquerade of cooks ? 

And all the sauces they retail 

To mingle death with ev'ry meal ? 

Not the best dainties of the main ; 

Not turbot, jellied in champagne ; 

Not all, the inland game supplies. 

Not ortolans, or partridge pies, 

Try'd in this scale, would weigh one farthing, 

Bought for the club, — and cook'd by Bardin. 

Give me a shoulder, or a chine. 
That never tasted grass but mine ! 
Be mine the chickens ! and the ham ! 
The young egg'd fowl ! or Christmas lamb ! 
The plump round pig, as white as snow ! 
(No matter, whether tyth'd or no), 
Sallad and greens, for health and use, 
The best toj garden can produce ! 


These, and a pudding for the boys ! 

Can luxury give equal joys ? 

Then when the chaste repast is o'er, 

And friendship asks a toast mo more ; 

Suffio'd, not sated, how sedate 

He draws off to his learn'd retreat ! 

Where the wise rules, by sages shewn 

He ponders, or reviews his own ! 

Some fav'rite author's thread pursues. 

Or courts the inoffensive Muse ! 

Chear'd; or improv'd, his infant-train 

Invite him to a softer scene : 

And blending innocence with mirth, 

He blesses the parental hearth. 

His servants from their work retire : 

Crowding they close the kitchen fire : 

Indalge their jokes, and, as they please, 

Soften their industry by ease. 

So Shepherd sung, and so sincere. 
That what he sung, he'd almost swear. 

Mix me, oh ! mix me with this tribe ! 
Make me the person I describe ! 
Like Alphius, if my heart's so mean 
To barter happiness for gain ; 
Tf e'er new projects I explore ; 
Or wander for contentment more j 
If e'er, — unless in some good time, 
TJnteiz'd by friends, unplagu'd by rhyme. 
(To bless six children and a wife. 
The comforts, but the cares of life,) 
Tour Grace in bounty should think fitting 
To grant my age a stall to sit in. 

Rev. Samuel Shepherd. 



HAPPY he, who free from care 
Breathes the sweets of country air 
Par from town, where traffic drives, 
Noisy brats, and scolding wives. 

Anxious thoughts, and worldly schemes 
Ne'er disturb his pleasing dreams ; 
War for him has no alarms, 
When ambition calls to arms. 

Honest, he abjures the law ; 
Splendid courts he never saw ; 
Courts, where placemen, night and day, 
Flatter first, and then betray. 

If, to cheat the ling'ring time. 
Goddess Mirth provoke a rhyme. 
Full of wit it smoothly runs, 
Quaint conceits, and merry puns. 

Formal pedants, bred at schools, 
Boast of Aristotle's rules ; 
Such, let cringing bards obey. 
Servile wits, who write for pay. 

Nought restrains his Muse of whim. 
Critics dull may rail for him ; 
Still he rhymes' and writes it down, 
Let them smile, or let them frown. 

If the bounteous Gods afford 
Some kind wife to spread his board, 
See him blest with, day and night, 
Converse sweet, and chaste delight. 


Would you once Ms mind bewitcli : 
Give him wealth, and make him rich : 
Keep him to his low degree 
Kings are not so blest as he. 

Geoege Daniel. 

EPODE ni. 

FOR parricide, that worst of crimes, 
Hemlock's cold draught, in ancient times, 
Scarce taught the rogue repentance : 
But had tobacco then been known, 
Its burning juices swallow'd down, 
Had prov'd a fitter sentence. 

How callous are the lab'rers jaws. 

Who this dire weed both smokes and chaws. 

And feasts upon the yenom ! 
While I by chance a taste once got. 
That so inflam'd my mouth and throat, 

I thought all hell was in 'em. 

Sure, this vile drug, that serv'd me thus. 
The deadly viper's pois'nous juice 

Infna'd must have great share in ; 
Or else some hag, with midnight wish, 
Procur'd it as a special dish 

Of Satan's own preparing. 

This was the charm Medea taught 
Her dear advent'rous Argonaut, 

To steal the Golden Meece with ; 
Down bulls and dragons gaping throat 
A quid he threw, which, quick as thought. 

The brutes were laid at peace with. 


Ting'd in tobacco's baleful oil, 
Her presents made her rival broil 

Past Jason's art of quenching : 
And when he swore revenge, the witch 
Mounted aloft astride her switch, 

Pleas'd she had spoil'd his wenching. 

Under the blue I'd rather live, 
And the sun's fiercest rays receive, 

How apt soe'er to burn us : 
Nay, Hercules's shirt I'd wear, 
Or any flame much, sooner bear. 

Than a pipe's fiery furnace. 

My merry lord, if quid or whiff 
Ton ever taste of this damn'd leaf, 

May you m6et what you dread most. 
May Ohloe, when with her you lie, 
And press to kiss her, put you by, 

And rather hug the bed post. 

" Gentlemcm's Magazine," May, 1744. 


ASK me no longer, dear Sir John, 
Why your lampoon lies still undone, 
'Fore George my brain's grown addle : 
Nor bid me Pegasus bestride ; 
Why should you ask a sot to ride, 
That cannot keep his saddle ? 

This was the poor Anacreon's case, 
When doating on a smooth-chinn'd face. 
He pin'd away his carcase. 


To tune Hs strings the bard essay'd, 
The devil a string the bard obey'd 
And was not this a hard case ? 

If you a constant miss have got, 
Thank heaven devoutly for your lot, 

Such blessings are not common. 
While I, condemned to endless pain, 
Must tamely drag Belinda's chain. 

Yet know she's worse than woman. 
Tom Bbown. 


BEHOLD, false maid, yon horned light, 
Which in Heav'ns arched vault doth range. 
And views part of thyself in it, 

Tet she but once a month doth change. 

The raging sea, th' uncertain air, 

Or what does yet more change admit, 

Of variation emblems are. 

When thou, and only thou, art it. 

Philosophers their pains may spare 

Perpetual motion where to find ; 
If such a thing be any where, 

'Tis woman, in thy fickle mind ! 

How oft, incentred in thine arms. 

Big with betraying sighs and tears, 
Hast thou secur'd me, by thy charms. 

From other lovers' natural fears ? 


Sighs that improv'd the honest flame, 
Which made my faithful bosom pant. 

And tears so gentle, as might claim 
Belief from hearts of adamant. 

These were the arts seduc'd my youth, 

A captive to thy wanton ■will : 
That with a falsehood, like to truth. 

In the same instant cure and kill. 

Go, tell the next you will betray, 
(I mean that fool usurps my room,) 

How for his sake I'm turn'd away ; 
To the same fortune he must come. 

When I, restored to that sense, 

Thoii hast distemper'd, sound and free, 

Shall, with a very just pretence, 
Despise and laugh at him and thee. 

Charles Cotton. 




OH ! well may poets make a fuss 
In summer time, and sigh " rus " ! 
Of London pleasures sick : 
My heart is all at pant to rest 
In greenwood shades — my eyes detest 
This endless meal of brick ! 

What joy have I in June's return ? 
My feet are parch'd, my eyeballs burn, 
I scent no flowery gust ; 
T 2 


But faint the flagging zephyr springs, 
With dry Macadam on its wings, 

And turns me " dust to dust." 

My Sun his daily course renews 
Due east, but with no eastern dews ; 

The path is dry and hot ! 
' His setting shows more tamely still. 
He sinks, behind no purple hill, 

But down a chimney's pot ! 

Oh ! but to hear the milkmaid blithe ; 
Or early mower whet his scythe 

The dewy meads among ! 
My grass is of that sort — alas ! 
That makes no hay — called sparrow-grass 

By folks of vulgar tongue ! 

Oh ! but to smell the woodbine sweet ! 
I think of cowslip cups — but meet 

With very vile rebuffs ! 
For meadow buds I get a whiff 
Of Cheshire cheese, — or only sniff 

The turtle made at Cuffs. 

How tenderly Rousseau review'd 
His periwinkles ! mine are strew'd ! 

My rose blooms on a gown ! 
I hunt in vain for eglantine. 
And find my blue bell on the sign. 

That marks the Bell and Crown ! 

Where are ye, birds ! that blithely wing 
From tree to tree, and gaily sing 

Or mourn in thickets deep ? 
My cuckoo has some ware to sell, 
The watchman is my Philomel, 

My blackbird is a sweep ! 


Where are ye, linnet, lark, and thrush ! 
That perch on leafy bongh and bush 

And tune the various song ? 
Two hurdy-gurdists, and a poor 
Street Handel grinding at my door, 

Are all my " tuneful throng." 

Where are ye, early-purling streams, 
Whose waves reflect the morning beams 

And colours of the skies ? 
My rills are only puddle-drains 
From shambles, or reflect the stains 

Of calimanco dyes ! 

Sweet are the little brooks that run 
O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, 

Singing in soothing tones : 
Not thus the City streamlets flow ; 
They make no music as they go, 

Though never " off the stones." 

Where are ye, pastoral pretty sheep. 
That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap 

Beside your woolly dams ? 
Alas ! instead of harmless crooks, 
My Corydons use iron hooks. 

And skin, not shear, the lambs. 

The pipe whereon, in olden day. 
The Arcadian herdsman used to play 

Sweetly — ^here soundeth not ; 
But merely breathes unwholesome fumes, 
Meanwhile the City boor consumes 

The rank weed — " piping hot." 

All rural things are vilely mock'd, 
On every hand the sense is shocked 
With objects hard to bear : 


Shades, vernal shades ! — where wine is sold ! 
And for a turfy bank, behold 

An Ingram's rustic chair ! 

Where are ye, London meads and bowers. 
And gardens redolent of flowers 

Wherein the zephyr wons ? 
Alas ! Moor Fields are fields no more : 
See Hatton's Garden brick'd all o'er ; 

And that bare wood — St. John's. 

No pastoral scenes procure me peace ; 
I hold no Leasowes in raj lease, 

No cot set round with trees ; 
No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks ; 
And Omnium furnishes my banks 

With brokers — not with bees. 

Oh ! well may poets make a fuss 
In summer time, and sigh "0 rus ! " 

Of city pleasures sick : 
My heart is all at pant to rest 
In greenwood shades — my eyes detest 

This endless meal of brick. 

Thomas Hood. 


Addison, Joseph, 78. 

Anstey, Christopher, 159. 

" Anti- Jacobin Review," 171, 

180, 201, 212, 239, 251. 
Ashmore, J., 67. 
Atterbury, Bishop, 89, 120. 

Barham, Richard Harris, 228. 
Bath, William Pulteney, Earl of, 

Beattie, James, 96. 
Beaumont, Sir John, 110. 
Behn, Aphra, 169, 178. 
Bentley, Dr., 256. 
Berual, Ralph, 63. 
Boscawen, William, 90, 104, 146. 
Bourne, T., 42. 
Boyse, Samuel, 38, 179. 
Brome, Alexander, 18, 106. 
Broome, Dr. William, 1. 
Brown, Tom, 149, 275. 
Browne, Isaac Hawkins, 23. 
Byron, Lord, 78. 

Cambridge, Richard Owen, 229. 
Canning, George, 251. 
Carter, Elizabeth, 24. 
Cartwright, William, 139. 
Chalmers, Dr., 107. 
Chatterton, Thomas, 170, 184. 
Coleridge, Hartley, 45. 
CongreTC, 29, 175. 
Cornwall, Barry, 105. 
Cotton, Charles, 276. 

Cowley, 10, 71, 118. 
Cowper, William, 18, 45, 58, 65. 
Crashaw, Richard, 61. 
Creech, Thomas, 40, 50, 94. 
Cunningham, Alexander, 267. 

Daniel, George, 186, 247, 249, 

Dodsley's Collection, 23, 255, 267. 
"Duel," Author of the, 194, 250. 
Dryden, 7, 16, 112, 143. 
Duke, Richard, 49. 
Duncombe, William, 26. 

Ellis, George, 212, 239. 
Evelyn, John, 15. 

Fanshawe, Sir Richard, 28, 36, 

41, 92, 107, 116, 128. 
Flatman, Thomas, 86. 
Francis, Dr., 14, 35, 37, 79, 132. 
Frere, John Hookham, 239. 

" Gentleman's Magazine," 39, 
Gilbert, Sir Jeffrey, 60. 
Glenbervie, Lord, 34. 

Hamilton, William, of Bangour, 

Hastings, Warren, 233. 
Hawkins, Sir Thomas, 19, 104, 

109, 141. 
Herrick, 88,220,251. 



Heywood, Jasper, 215. 
Holyday, Barton, 5, 44, 99, 101. 
Hood, Thomas, 12, 277. 
Hunt, Leigh, 12. 

Jenyns, Soame, 231. 
Johnson, Dr., 33, 53, 127. 
Jones, Sir William, 227. 
Jonson, Ben, 117. 

Lyttleton, Lord, 121. 

Marriott, Sir James, 27, 209. 
Marvel, Andrew, 155, 164, 166. 
Mennis, Sir John, 135. 
Merivaie, John Herman, 47. 
Milton, 11. 
Mitford, J., 64, 97. 
Morpeth, Lord, 171, 180, 201. 

" New Foimdling Hospital for 
Wit," 205, 261. 

Oldham, John, 195. 

" Paradise of dainty Devices," 

Pembroke, Earl of, 207. 
Pitt, Christopher, 20. 
Pope, Alexander, 253. 
Porson, 191. 
Prior, M., 265. 
Pye, H. J., 34. 

Ealeigh, Sir Walter, 73, 80, 133. 
" Reliquiffi Wottonianse," 243. 

" EoUiad, The," 245. 
Koscommon, Earl of, 31, 84, 187. 
Eowe, N., 102, 206, 244. 

Sedley, Sir Charles, 52. 

Seward, Anna, 136, 147, 151. 

Seward, Thomas, 267. 

Shepherd, Eev. Samuel, 269. 

Sherburne, Sir E., 134. 

Sidney, Su: Philip, 58. 

Smith, James and Horace, 162, 
168, 172, 173, 177, 181, 182, 
185, 188, 190, 192, 193, 198, 
203, 205, 208, 210, 214, 230, 
235, 238. 

Smith, John, 37, 85. 

Stepney, George, 129. 

Steyenson, John Hall, 211. 

Surrey, Earl of, 54. 

Swift, 73, 259. 

Temple, Sir William, 22. 
Thurlow, Lord, 138. 
Titley, William, 355. 
Totters"Miscellany," 55,57, 125. 
Trench, Archbishop, 159. 

Wakefield, Gilbert, 13, 46, 51. 
Walpole, Horace, 162. 
Warton, J., 95, 100. 
Williams, Sir Charles Hanbnry, 

189, 218, 231. 
Wrangham, Archdeacon, 9, 30, 

31, 68, 69, 82, 124. 





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Magic and Astrology— Grant (James)— The 

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